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OF 

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Masterpieces  of  German  Literature 


TRANSLATED  INTO  ENGLISH 


Editor-in-Chief 
KUNO  FRANCKE,  Ph.D.,  LL.D.,  Litt.D. 

Professor  of  the  History  of  German  Culture,  Emeritus,  and 

Honorary  Curator  of  the  Germanic  Museum, 

Harvard  University 


Assistant  Editor-in-Chief 
WILLIAM  GUILD  HOWARD,  A.M. 

Professor  of  German,  Harvard  University 


Hit  ©m^nty  Unlumpa  JUuatratFb 


ALBANY,  N.  Y. 

J.  B.  LYON  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


Copyright  1913 


/  113 
ie>i3 

CONTRIBUTORS  AND  TRANSLATORS 

VOLUME  IV 


Special  Writers 

Benjamin  W.  Wells,  Ph.D.,  Author  of  Modern  German  Literature: 
The  Life  of  Jean  Paul. 

James  Taft  Hatfield,  Ph.D.,  Professor  of  the  German  Language  and  Litera- 
ture, Northwestern  University: 
The  Early  Romantic  School. 

Calvin  Thomas,  LL.D.,  Professor  of  Germanic  Languages  and  Literatures, 
Columbia  University: 
Introduction  to  Lucinda. 

John  S.  Nollen,  Ph.D.,  President  of  Lake  Forest  College: 
The  Life  of  Heinrich  von  Kleist. 

Translators 

Hermann  Hagedorn,  A.B.,  Author  of   A   Troop  of  the  Guard,  and  Other 
Poems;  Poems  and  Ballads,  etc.: 
The  Prince  of  Homburg. 

Charles    Wharton    Stork,    Ph.D.,    Instructor    in    English,    University    of 
Pennsylvania : 

Though  None  Thy  Name  Should  Cherish;  To  the  Virgin;   Hyperion's 
Song  of  Fate;  Evening  Phantasie. 

Paul  Bernard  Thomas: 

Lucinda;  Fair  Eckbert;  Hymn  to  Night. 

Frances  H.  King: 

The  Opening  of  the  Will;  Schiller  and  the  Process  of  His  Intellectual 
Development;  Michael  Kohlhaas. 

LiLLiE  Winter,  A.B.: 

The  Story  of  Hyacinth  and  Roseblossom;  Puss  in  Boots. 

Louis  H.  Gray,  Ph.D.: 

Aphorisms  (By  Schlegcl). 

Thomas  Carlyle: 

Quintus  Fixlein's  Wedding. 

C.  T.  Brooks: 

Rome. 
John  Black: 

Lectures  on  Dramatic  Art. 
Frederic  H.  Hedge: 

Aphorisms   (By  Novalis)  ;  The  Elves. 


'Jl  Ji'  O?,  >» 


CONTENTS  OF  VOLUME  IV 

JEAN  PAUL  PAGE 

The  Life  of  Jean  Paul.     By  Benjamin  W.  Wells 1 

Quintus  Fixlein's  Wedding.     Translated  by  Thomas  Carlyle 16 

Rome.    Translated  by  C.  T.  Brooks 21 

The  Opening  of  the  Will.     Translated  by  Frances  H.  King 32 

WILHELM  VON  HUMBOLDT 

Schiller  and  the  Process  of  His  Intellectual  Development.     Translated  by 

Frances  H.  King 39 

The  Early  Romantic  School.     By  James  Taft  Hatfield 48 

AUGUST  WILHELM  SCHLEGEL 

Lectures  on  Dramatic  Art.     Translated  by  John  Black. 71 

FRIEDRICH  SCHLEGEL 

''^^  Introduction  to  Lucinda.     By  Calvin  Thomas 120 

•^  Lucinda.    Translated  by  Paul  Bernard  Thomas 124 

Aphorisms.    Translated  by  Louis  H.  Gray 175 

NOVALIS  (FRIEDRICH  VON  HARDENBERG) 

The  Story  of  Hyacinth  and  Roseblossom.     Translated  by  Lillie  Winter..  180 

Aphorisms.     Translated  by  Frederic  H.  Hedge 185 

Hymn  to  Night.    Translated  by  Paul  Bernard  Thomas 189 

Though  None  Thy  Name  Should  Cherish.    Translated  by  Charles  Wharton 

Stork   190 

To  the  Virgin.    Translated  by  Charles  Wharton  Stork 191 

FRIEDRICH  HOLDERLIN 

Hyperibn's  Song  of  Fate.    Translated  by  Charles  Wharton  Stork 192 

Evening  Pbantasie.     Translated  by  Charles  Wharton  Stork 192 

LUDWIG  TIECK 

Pofis  in  Boots.     Translated  by  Lillie  Winter 194 

Fair  Eckbert.    Translated  by  Paul  Bernard  Thomas 252 

The  Elves.     Translated  by  Frederic  H.  Hedge 272 

HEINRICH  VON  KLEIST 

The  Life  of  Heinrich  von  Kleist,     By  John  S.  Nolleu 294 

Michael  Kohlhaas.     Translated  by  Frances  H.  King 308 

The  Prince  of  Homburg.     Translated  by  Hermann  Hagedorn 416 


ILLUSTRATIONS  — VOLUME  IV 

PAGE 

On  the  Elbe  near  Schreckenstein  Castle.     By  Ludwig  Richter Frontispiece 

Jean  Paul.     By  E.  Hader 2 

Bridal  Procession.    By  Ludwig  Richter 18 

Wilhelm  von  Humboldt.    By  Franz  Kriiger 40 

The  University  of  Berlin 44 

A  Hermit  watering  Horses.     By  Moritz  von  Schwind 54 

A  Wanderer  looks  into  a  Landscape.     By  Moritz  von  Schwind 60 

The  Chapel  in  the  Forest.     By  Moritz  von  Schwind 62 

August  Wilhelm  Schlegel 72 

Caroline  Schlegel    74 

Friedrich  Schlegel.     By  E.  Hader 120 

The  Creation.     By  Moritz  von  Schwind 124 

Novalis.     By  Eduard  Eichens 180 

The  Queen  of  Night.     By  Moritz  von  Schwind 190 

Friedrich  Holderlin.    By  E.  Hader 192 

Ludwig  Tieck.     By  Vogel  von  Vogelstein 194 

Puss  in  Boots.     By  Moritz  von  Schwind 198 

Dance  of  the  Elves.     By  Moritz  von  Schwind 282 

Heinrich  von  Kleist 294 

Sarcophagus  of  Queen  Louise  in  the  Mausoleum  at  Ciiarlottenburg.     By 

Christian  Ranch 300 

The  Royal  Castle  at  Berlin 418 

Statue  of  the  Great  Elector.    By  Andreas  Schltiter 496 


EDITOR'S  NOTE 

'ROM  this  volume  ou,  an  attempt  will  be  made  to 
bring  out,  in  the  illustrations,  certain  broad 
tendencies  of  German  painting  in  the  nine- 
teenth century,  parallel  to  the  literary  devel- 
opment here  represented.  There  will  be  few 
direct  illustrations  of  the  subject  matter  of  the  text.  In- 
stead, each  volume  will  be  dominated,  as  far  as  possible, 
by  a  master,  or  a  group  of  masters,  whose  works  offer  an 
artistic  analogy  to  the  character  and  spirit  of  the  works  of 
literature  contained  in  it.  Volumes  IV  and  V,  for  instance, 
being  devoted  to  German  Romantic  literature  of  the  early 
nineteenth  century,  will  present  at  the  same  time  selec- 
tions from  the  work  of  two  of  the  foremost  Romantic 
painters  of  Germany:  Moritz  von  Schwind  and  Ludmg 
Richter.  It  is  hoped  that  in  this  way  The  German  Classics 
OF  THE  Nineteenth  and  Twentieth  Centuries  will  shed  a 
not  unwelcome  side-light  upon  the  development  of  modern 
German  art. 

KuNO  Francke. 


JEAN  PAUL 


THE   LIFE  OF  JEAN  PAUL 

By  Benjamin  W.  Wells,  Ph.D. 

Author  of  Modern  German  Literature. 

r  (iigrman~(HE  Spring  and  I  came  into  the  world 
together,"  Jean  Paul  liked  to  tell  his 
friends  when  in  later  days  of  comfort  and 
fame  he  looked  back  on  his  early  years. 
He  was,  in  fact,  born  on  the  first  day 
(March  21)  and  at  almost  the  first  hour 
of  the  Spring  of  1763  at  Wunsiedel  in  the 
Fichtelgebirge,  the  very  heart  of  Germany.  The  boy  was 
christened  Johann  Paul  Friedrich  Richter.  His  parents 
called  him  Fritz.  It  was  not  till  1793  that,  with  a  thought 
of  Jean  Jacques  Rousseau,  he  called  himself  Jean  Paul. 

Place  and  time  are  alike  significant  in  his  birth.  Wun- 
siedel was  a  typical  German  hill  village;  the  ancestry,  as 
far  back  as  we  can  trace  it,  was  typically  German,  as 
untouched  as  Wunsiedel  itself,  by  any  breath  of  cosmo- 
politan life.  It  meant  much  that  the  child  who  was  in 
later  life  to  interpret  most  intimately  the  spirit  of  the  Ger- 
man people  through  the  days  of  the  French  Revolution, 
of  the  Napoleonic  tyranny  and  of  the  War  of  Liberation, 
who  was  to  be  a  bond  between  the  old  literature  and  the 
new,  beside,  yet  independent  of,  the  men  of  Weimar,  should 
have  such  heredity  and  such  environment.  Richter 's 
grandfather  had  held  worthily  minor  offices  in  the  church, 
his  father  had  followed  in  his  churchly  steps  with  especial 
leaning  to  music ;  his  maternal  grandfather  was  a  well-to-do 
clothmaker  in  the  near-by  town  of  Hof,  his  mother  a  long- 
suffering  housewife.  It  was  well  that  Fritz  brought  sun- 
shine with  him  into  the  world;  for  his  temperament  was 
his  sole  patrimony  and  for  many  years  his  chief  depend- 
ence.    He  was  the  eldest  of  seven  children.     None,  save  he, 


2  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

passed  unscathed  through  the  privations  and  trials  of  tKe 
growing  household  with  its  accumulating  burdens  of  debt. 
For  Fritz  these  trials  meant  but  the  tempering  of  his  wit, 
the  mellowing  of  his  humor,  the  deepening  of  his  sym- 
pathies. 

When  Fritz  was  two  years  old  the  family  moved  to 
Joditz,  another  village  of  the  Fichtelgebirge.  Of  his  boy- 
hood here  Jean  Paul  in  his  last  years  set  down  some  mel- 
lowed recollections.  He  tells  how  his  father,  still  in  his 
dressing  gown,  used  to  take  him  and  his  brother  Adam 
across  the  Saale  to  dig  potatoes  and  gather  nuts,  alternat- 
ing in  the  labor  and  the  play ;  how  his  thrifty  mother  would 
send  him  with  the  provision  bag  to  her  own  mother's  at 
Hof,  who  would  give  him  goodies  that  he  would  share  with 
some  little  friend.  He  tells,  too,  of  his  rapture  at  his  first 
ABC  book  and  its  gilded  cover,  and  of  his  eagerness  at 
school,  until  his  too-anxious  father  took  him  from  contact 
with  the  rough  peasant  boys  and  tried  to  educate  him  him- 
self, an  experience  not  without  value,  at  least  as  a  warning, 
to  the  future  author  of  Levana.  But  if  the  Richters  were 
proud,  they  were  very  poor.  The  boys  used  to  count  it  a 
privilege  to  carry  the  father's  coffee-cup  to  him  of  a  Sun- 
day morning,  as  he  sat  by  the  window  meditating  his  ser- 
mon, for  then  they  could  carry  it  back  again  ''  and  pick 
the  unmelted  remains  of  sugar-candy  from  the  bottom  of 
it."  Simple  pleasures  surely,  but,  as  Carlyle  says,  "  there 
was  a  bold,  deep,  joyful  spirit  looking  through  those  young 
eyes,  and  to  such  a  spirit  the  world  has  nothing  poor,  but 
all  is  rich  and  full  of  loveliness  and  wonder." 

Every  book  that  the  boy  Fritz  could  anywdse  come  at 
was,  he  tells  us,  "a  fresh  green  spring-place,"  where 
*'  rootlets,  thirsty  for  knowledge  pressed  and  twisted  in 
every  direction  to  seize  and  absorb."  Very  characteristic 
of  the  later  Jean  Paul  is  one  incident  of  his  childhood 
which,  he  says,  made  him  doubt  whether  he  had  not  been 
born  rather  for  philosophy  than  for  imaginative  writing. 
He  was  witness  to  the  birth  of  his  own  self -consciousness. 


Permission  E.  Linde  &=  Co.,  Berlin 


JEAX  PAUL 


E.  Hadre 


JEAN  PAUL  3 

*  *  One  forenoon, ' '  he  writes, '  *  I  was  standing,  a  very  young 
child,  by  the  house  door,  looking  to  the  left  at  the  wood- 
pile, when,  all  at  once,  like  a  lightning  flash  from  heaven, 
the  inner  vision  arose  before  me:  I  am  an  /.  It  has 
remained  ever  since  radiant.  At  that  moment  my  1  saw 
itself  for  the  first  time  and  forever." 

It  is  curious  to  contrast  this  childhood,  in  the  almost 
cloistered  seclusion  of  the  Fichtelgebirge,  with  Goethe's 
at  cosmopolitan  Frankfurt  or  even  with  Schiller's  at  Mar- 
bach.  Much  that  came  unsought,  even  to  Schiller,  Richter 
had  a  struggle  to  come  by ;  much  he  could  never  get  at  all. 
The  place  of  ''  Frau  Aja  "  in  the  development  of  the  child 
Goethe 's  fancy  was  taken  at  Joditz  by  the  cow-girl.  Eager- 
ness to  learn  Fritz  showed  in  pathetic  fulness,  but  the  most 
diligent  search  has  revealed  no  trace  in  these  years  of  that 
creative  imagination  with  which  he  was  so  richly  dowered. 

When  Fritz  was  thirteen  his  father  received  a  long-hoped- 
for  promotion  to  Schwarzenbach,  a  market  town  near  Hof, 
then  counting  some  1,500  inhabitants.  The  boy's  horizon 
was  thus  widened,  though  the  family  fortunes  were  far 
from  finding  the  expected  relief.  Here  Fritz  first  partic- 
ipated in  the  Communion  and  has  left  a  remarkable  record 
of  his  emotional  experience  at  '*  becoming  a  citizen  in  the 
city  of  God. ' '  About  the  same  time,  as  was  to  be  expected, 
came  the  boy's  earliest  strong  emotional  attachment. 
Katharina  Barin's  first  kiss  was,  for  him,  '*  a  unique  pearl 
of  a  minute,  such  as  never  had  been  and  never  was  to  be. ' ' 
But,  as  with  the  Communion,  though  the  memory  remained, 
the  feeling  soon  passed  away. 

The  father  designed  Fritz,  evidently  the  most  gifted  of 
his  sons,  for  the  church,  and  after  some  desultory  attempts 
at  instruction  in  Schwarzenbach,  sent  him  in  1779  to  the 
high  school  at  Hof.  His  entrance  examination  was  bril- 
liant, a  last  consolation  to  the  father,  who  died,  worn  out 
with  the  anxieties  of  accumulating  debt,  a  few  weeks  later. 
From  his  fellow  pupils  the  country  lad  suffered  much  till 
his  courage  and  endurance  had  compelled  respect.      His 


4  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

teachers  were  conscientious  but  not  competent.  In  the 
liberally  minded  Pastor  Vogel  of  near-by  Eehau,  however, 
he  found  a  kindred  spirit  and  a  helpful  friend.  In  this 
clergyman's  generously  opened  library  the  thirsty  student 
made  his  first  acquaintance  with  the  unorthodox  thought 
of  his  time,  with  Lessing  and  Lavater,  Goethe  and  even 
Helvetius.  When  in  1781  he  left  Hof  for  the  University 
of  Leipzig  the  pastor  took  leave  of  the  youth  with  the 
prophetic  words :  * '  You  will  some  time  be  able  to  render 
me  a  greater  service  than  I  have  rendered  you.  Remember 
this  prophecy." 

Under  such  stimulating  encouragement  Richter  began  to 
write.  Some  little  essays,  two  addresses,  and  a  novel,  a 
happy  chance  has  preserved.  The  novel  is  an  echo  of 
Goethe's  Werther,  the  essays  are  marked  by  a  clear, 
straightforward  style,  an  absence  of  sentimentality  or 
mysticism,  and  an  eagerness  for  reform  that  shows  the 
influence  of  Lessing.  Religion  is  the  dominant  interest, 
but  the  youth  is  no  longer  orthodox,  indeed  he  is  only  con- 
ditionally Christian. 

With  such  literary  baggage,  fortified  with  personal 
recommendations  and  introductions  from  the  Head  Master 
at  Hof,  with  a  Certificate  of  Maturity  and  a  testimonium 
paupertatis  that  might  entitle  him  to  remission  of  fees  and 
possibly  free  board,  Richter  went  to  Leipzig.  From  the 
academic  environment  and  its  opportunities  he  got  much, 
from  formal  instruction  little.  He  continued  to  be  in  the 
main  self-taught  and  extended  his  independence  in  man- 
ners and  dress  perhaps  a  little  beyond  the  verge  of  eccen- 
tricity. Meantime  matters  at  home  were  going  rapidly 
from  bad  to  worse.  His  grandfather  had  died ;  the  inher- 
itance had  been  largely  consumed  in  a  law-suit.  He  could 
not  look  to  his  mother  for  help  and  did  not  look  to  her  for 
counsel.  He  suffered  from  cold  and  stretched  his  credit 
for  rent  and  food  to  the  breaking  point.  But  the  emptier 
his  stomach  the  more  his  head  abounded  in  plans  '*  for 
writing  books  to  earn  money  to  buy  books."     He  devised 


JEAN  PAUL  5 

a  system  of  spelling  reform  and  could  submit  to  his  pastor 
friend  at  Rebau  in  1782  a  little  sheaf  of  essays  on  various 
aspects  of  Folly,  the  student  being  now  of  an  age  when, 
like  lago,  he  was  ' '  nothing  if  not  critical. ' '  Later  these 
papers  seemed  to  him  little  better  than  school  exercises, 
but  they  gave  a  jDromise  soon  to  be  redeemed  in  Greenland 
Law-Suits,  his  first  volume  to  find  a  publisher.  These 
satirical  sketches,  printed  early  in  1783,  were  followed  later 
in  that  year  by  another  series,  but  both  had  to  wait  38 
years  for  a  second  edition,  much  mellowed  in  revision  —  not 
altogether  to  its  profit. 

The  point  of  the  Law-Suits  is  directed  especially  against 
theologians  and  the  nobility.  Richter's  uncompromising 
fierceness  suggests  youthful  hunger  almost  as  much  as 
study  of  Swift.  But  Lessing,  had  he  lived  to  read  their 
stinging  epigrams,  Avould  have  recognized  in  Richter  the 
promise  of  a  successor  not  unworthy  to  carry  the  biting 
acid  of  the  Disowning  Letter  over  to  the  hand  of  Heine. 

The  Law-Suits  proved  too  bitter  for  the  public  taste  and 
it  was  seven  years  before  their  author  found  another  pub- 
lisher. Meanwhile  Richter  was  leading  a  precarious  exist- 
ence, writing  for  magazines  at  starvation  prices,  and  per- 
severing in  an  indefatigable  search  for  some  one  to  under- 
take his  next  book,  Selections  from  the  Papers  of  the  Devil. 
A  love  affair  with  the  daughter  of  a  minor  official  which 
she,  at  least,  took  seriously,  interrupted  his  studies  at 
Leipzig  even  before  the  insistence  of  creditors  compelled 
him  to  a  clandestine  flight.  This  was  in  1784.  Then  he 
shared  for  a  time  his  mother's  poverty  at  Hof  and  from 
1786  to  1789  was  tutor  in  the  house  of  Oerthel,  a  parvenu 
Commercial-Counsellor  in  Topen.  This  experience  he  was 
to  turn  to  good  account  in  Levana  and  in  his  first  novel, 
The  Invisible  Lodge,  in  which  the  unsympathetic  figure 
of  Roper  is  undoubtedly  meant  to  present  the  not  very 
gracious  personality  of  the  Kommerzienrat. 

To  this  period  belongs  a  collection  of  Aphorisms  whose 
bright  wit  reveals  deep  reflection.     They  show  a  maturing 


6  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

mind,  keen  insight,  livelier  and  wider  sympathies.  The 
Devil's  Papers,  published  in  1789,  when  Richter,  after  a 
few  months  at  Hof,  was  about  to  become  tutor  to  the  chil- 
dren of  three  friendly  families  in  Schwarzenbach,  confirm 
the  impression  of  progress.  In  his  new  field  Richter  had 
great  freedom  to  develop  his  ideas  of  education  as  distinct 
from  inculcation.  Rousseau  was  in  the  main  his  guide,  and 
his  success  in  stimulating  childish  initiative  through  varied 
and  ingenious  pedagogical  experiments  seems  to  have  been 
reall)^  remarkable. 

Quite  as  remarkable  and  much  more  disquieting  were 
the  ideas  about  friendship  and  love  which  Richter  now 
began  to  develop  under  the  stimulating  influence  of  a  group 
of  young  ladies  at  Hof.  In  a  note  book  of  this  time  he 
writes:  "  Prize  question  for  the  Erotic  Academy:  How 
far  may  friendship  toward  women  go  and  what  is  the 
difference  between  it  and  love  1  ' '  That  Richter  called  this 
circle  his  * '  erotic  academy  ' '  is  significant.  He  was  ever, 
in  such  relations,  as  alert  to  observe  as  he  was  keen  to 
sjTupathize  and  permitted  himself  an  astonishing  variety 
of  quickly  changing  and  even  simultaneous  experiments, 
both  at  Hof  and  later  in  the  aristocratic  circles  that  were 
presently  to  open  to  him.  In  his  theory,  which  finds  fullest 
expression  in  Hesperus,  love  was  to  be  wholly  platonic. 
If  the  first  kiss  did  not  end  it,  the  second  surely  would. 
"  I  do  not  seek, ' '  he  says,  ' '  the  fairest  face  but  the  fairest 
heart.  I  can  overlook  all  spots  on  that,  but  none  on  this. ' ' 
' '  He  does  not  love  who  sees  his  beloved,  but  he  who  thinks 
her."  That  is  the  theory.  The  practice  was  a  little  dif- 
ferent. It  shows  Richter  at  Hof  exchanging  fine-spun  sen- 
timents on  God,  immortality  and  soul-affinity  with  some 
half  dozen  young  w^omen  to  the  perturbation  of  their  spirits, 
in  a  transcendental  atmosphere  of  sentiment,  arousing  but 
never  fulfilling  the  expectation  of  a  formal  betrothal.  That 
Jean  Paul  was  capable  of  inspiring  love  of  the  common 
sort  is  abundantly  attested  by  his  correspondence.  Per- 
haps no  man  ever  had  so  many  women  of  education  and 


JEAN  PAUL  7 

social  position  **  throw  themselves  "  at  him;  but  that  he 
was  capable  of  returning  such  love  in  kind  does  not  appear 
from  acts  or  letters  at  this  time,  or,  save  perhaps  for  the 
first  years  of  his  married  life,  at  any  later  period. 

The  immediate  effect  of  the  bright  hours  at  Hof  on 
Richter  as  a  writer  was  wholly  beneficent.  Mr.  Florian 
FdlbeVs  Journey  and  Bailiff  Josuah  FreudeVs  Com- 
plaint Bible  show  a  new  geniality  in  the  personification  of 
amusing  foibles.  And  with  these  was  a  real  little  master- 
piece, Life  of  the  Contented  Schoolmaster  Maria  Wuz, 
which  alone,  said  the  Berlin  critic  Moritz,  might  suffice  to 
make  its  author  immortal.  In  this  delicious  pedagogical 
idyl,  written  in  December,  1790,  the  humor  is  sound, 
healthy,  thoroughly  German  and  characteristic  of  Richter 
at  his  best.  It  seems  as  though  one  of  the  great  Dutch 
painters  were  guiding  the  pen,  revealing  the  beauty  of 
common  things  and  showing  the  true  charm  of  quiet  domes- 
ticity. Richter 's  Contented  Schoolmaster  lacked  much  in 
grace  of  form,  but  it  revealed  unguessed  resources  in  the 
German  language,  it  showed  democratic  sympathies  more 
genuine  than  Rousseau's,  it  gave  the  promise  of  a  new 
pedagogy  and  a  fruitful  esthetic;  above  all  it  bore  the 
unmistakable  mint-mark  of  genius. 

Wuz  w^on  cordial  recognition  from  the  critics.  With  the 
general  public  it  was  for  the  time  overshadowed  by  the 
success  of  a  more  ambitious  effort,  Richter 's  first  novel, 
The  Invisible  Lodge.  This  fanciful  tale  of  an  idealized 
freemasonry  is  a  study  of  the  effects  in  after  life  of  a 
secluded  education.  Though  written  in  the  year  of  the 
storming  of  the  Tuileries  it  show^s  the  prose-poet  of  the 
Fichtelgebirge  as  yet  untouched  by  the  political  convul- 
sions of  the  time.  The  Lodge,  though  involved  in  plot  and 
reaching  an  empty  conclusion,  yet  appealed  very  strongly 
to  the  Germans  of  1793  by  its  descriptions  of  nature  and 
its  sentimentalized  emotion.  It  was  truly  of  its  time.  Men 
and  especially  women  liked  then,  better  than  they  do  now, 
to  read  how  "  the  angel  who  loves  the  earth  brought  the 


8  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

most  holy  lips  of  the  pair  together  in  an  inextinguishable 
kiss,  and  a  seraph  entered  into  their  beating  hearts  and 
gave  them  the  flames  of  a  supernal  love."  Of  greater 
present  interest  than  the  heartbeats  of  hero  or  heroine  are 
the  minor  characters  of  the  story,  presenting  genially  the 
various  types  of  humor  or  studies  from  life  made  in  the 
* '  erotic  academy  ' '  or  in  the  families  of  Richter  's  pupils. 
The  despotic  spendthrift,  the  Margrave  of  Bayreuth,  has 
also  his  niche,  or  rather  pillory,  in  the  story.  Notable,  too, 
is  the  tendency,  later  more  marked,  to  contrast  the  incon- 
siderate harshness  of  men  with  the  patient  humility  of 
women.  Encouraged  by  Moritz,  who  declared  the  book 
' '  better  than  Goethe, ' '  Richter  for  the  first  time  signed 
his  work  ' '  Jean  Paul. ' '  He  was  well  paid  for  it  and  had 
no  further  serious  financial  cares. 

Before  the  Lodge  was  out  of  press  Jean  Paul  had  begun 
Hesperus,  or  45  Dog-post-days,  which  magnified  the  merits 
of  the  earlier  novel  but  also  exaggerated  its  defects.  Wan- 
ton eccentricity  was  given  fuller  play,  formlessness  seemed 
cultivated  as  an  art.  Digressions  interrupt  the  narrative 
with  slender  excuse,  or  with  none;  there  is,  as  with  the 
English  Sterne,  an  obtrusion  of  the  author's  personality; 
the  style  seems  as  wilfully  crude  as  the  mastery  in  word- 
building  and  word-painting  is  astonishing.  On  the  other 
hand  there  is  both  greater  variety  and  greater  distinction 
in  the  characters,  a  more  developed  fabulation  and  a  won- 
derful deepening  and  refinement  of  emotional  description. 
Werther  was  not  yet  out  of  fashion  and  lovers  of  his 
"  Sorrows  "  found  in  Hesperus  a  book  after  their  hearts. 
It  established  the  fame  of  Jean  Paul  for  his  generation. 
It  brought  women  by  swarms  to  his  feet.  They  were  not 
discouraged  there.  It  was  his  platonic  rule  "  never  to 
sacrifice  one  love  to  another,"  but  to  experiment  with 
"  simultaneous  love,"  **  tutti  lo\e,"  a  *'  general  warmth  " 
of  universal  affection.  Intellectually  awakened  women 
were  attracted  possibly  as  much  by  Richter 's  knowl- 
edge of  their  feelings  as  by  the  fascination  of  his  person- 


JEAN  PAUL  9 

ality.  Hesperus  lays  bare  many  little  wiles  dear  to  feminine 
hearts,  and  contains  some  keenly  sympathetic  satire  on 
German  housewifery. 

While  still  at  work  on  Hesperus  Jean  Paul  returned  to 
his  mother's  house  at  Hof.  *'  Richter's  study  and  sitting- 
room  offered  about  this  time,"  saj^s  Doering,  his  first 
biographer,  ''  a  true  and  beautiful  picture  of  his  simple 
yet  noble  mind,  which  took  in  both  high  and  low.  While 
his  mother  bustled  about  the  housework  at  fire  or  table  he 
sat  in  a  corner  of  the  same  room  at  a  plain  writing-desk 
with  few  or  no  books  at  hand,  but  only  one  or  two  drawers 
with  excerjjts  and  manuscripts.  *  *  *  Pigeons  fluttered 
in  and  out  of  the  chamber. ' ' 

At  Hof,  Jean  Paul  continued  to  teach  with  originality 
and  much  success  until  1796,  when  an  invitation  from  Char- 
lotte von  Kalb  to  visit  Weimar  brought  him  new  interests 
and  connections.  Meanwhile,  having  finished  Hesperus  in 
July,  1794,  he  began  work  immediately  on  the  genial  Life 
of  Quintus  Fixlein,  Based  on  Fifteen  Little  Boxes  of  Mem- 
oranda, an  idyl,  like  Wuz,  of  the  schoolhouse  and  the  par- 
sonage, reflecting  Richter  's  pedagogical  interests  and  much 
of  his  personal  experience.  Its  satire  of  philological 
pedantry  has  not  yet  lost  pertinence  or  pungency.  Quintus, 
ambitious  of  authorship,  proposes  to  himself  a  catalogued 
interpretation  of  misprints  in  German  books  and  other 
tasks  hardly  less  laboriously  futile.  His  creator  treats 
him  with  unfailing  good  humor  and  ''  the  consciousness  of 
a  kindred  folly."  Fixlein  is  the  archetypal  pedant.  The 
very  heart  of  humor  is  in  the  account  of  the  commencement 
exercises  at  his  school.  His  little  childishnesses  are  delight- 
fully set  forth ;  so,  too,  is  his  awe  of  aristocracy.  He  always 
took  off  his  hat  before  the  windows  of  the  manor  house, 
even  if  he  saw  no  one  there.  The  crown  of  it  all  is  The 
Wedding.  The  bridal  pair's  visit  to  the  graves  of  by-gone 
loves  is  a  gem  of  fantasy.  But  behind  all  the  humor  and 
satire  must  not  be  forgotten,  in  view  of  what  was  to  follow, 
the  undercurrent  of  courageous  democratic  protest  which 


10  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

finds  its  keenest  expression  in  the  *'  Free  Note  "  to 
Chapter  Six.    Fixlein  appeared  in  1796. 

Richter's  next  story,  the  unfinished  Biographical  Recre- 
ations under  the  Cranium  of  a  Giantess,  sprang  immedi- 
ately from  a  visit  to  Bayreuth  in  1794  and  his  first 
introduction  to  aristocracy.  Its  chief  interest  is  in  the 
enthusiastic  welcome  it  extends  to  the  French  Revolution. 
Intrinsically  more  important  is  the  Floiver,  Fruit  and 
Thorn  Pieces  which  crowded  the  other  subject  from  his 
mind  and  tells  with  much  idyllic  charm  of  '*  the  marriage, 
life,  death  and  wedding  of  F.  H.  Siebenkas,  Advocate  of 
the  Poor"  (1796-7). 

In  1796,  at  the  suggestion  of  the  gifted,  emancipated  and 
ill-starred  Charlotte  von  Kalb,  Jean  Paul  visited  Weimar, 
already  a  Mecca  of  literary  pilgrimage  and  the  centre  of 
neo-classicism.  There,  those  who,  like  Herder,  were  jealous 
of  Goethe,  and  those  who,  like  Frau  von  Stein,  were 
estranged  from  him,  received  the  new  light  with  enthu- 
siasm—  others  with  some  reserve.  Goethe  and  Schiller, 
who  were  seeking  to  blend  the  classical  with  the  German 
spirit,  demurred  to  the  vagaries  of  Jean  Paul's  unques- 
tioned genius.  His  own  account  of  his  visit  to  "  the  rock- 
bound  Schiller  ' '  and  to  Goethe 's  ' '  palatial  hall ' '  are 
precious  commonplaces  of  the  histories  of  literature. 
There  were  sides  of  Goethe's  universal  genius  to  which 
Richter  felt  akin,  but  he  was  quite  ready  to  listen  to  Her- 
der's warning  against  his  townsman's  "imrouged"  infi- 
delity, which  had  become  socially  more  objectionable  since 
Goethe's  union  with  Christiane  Vulpius,  and  Jean  Paul 
presently  returned  to  Hof,  carrying  with  him  the  heart  of 
Charlotte  von  Kalb,  an  unprized  and  somewhat  embarrass- 
ing possession.  He  wished  no  heroine ;  for  he  was  no  hero, 
as  he  remarked  dryly,  somewhat  later,  when  Charlotte  had 
become  the  first  of  many  *'  beautiful  souls  "  in  confusion 
of  spirit  about  their  heart's  desire. 

In  1797  the  death  of  Jean  Paul's  mother  dissolved  home 
bonds  and  he  soon  left  Hof  forever,  though  still  for  a 


JEAN  PAUL  11 

time  maintaining  diligent  correspondence  with  the  '*  erotic 
academy "  as  well  as  with  new  and  more  aristocratic 
*'  daughters  of  the  Storm  and  Stress."  The  writings  of 
this  period  are  unimportant,  some  of  them  unworthy.  Jean 
Paul  was  for  a  time  in  Leipzig  and  in  Dresden.  In  October, 
1798,  he  was  again  in  Weimar,  which,  in  the  sunshine  of 
Herder's  praise,  seemed  at  first  his  "  Canaan,"  though  he 
soon  felt  himself  out  of  tune  with  Duchess  Amalia's  lite- 
rary court.  To  this  time  belongs  a  curious  Conjectural 
Biography,  a  pretty  idyl  of  an  ideal  courtship  and  marriage 
as  his  fancy  now  painted  it  for  himself.  Presently  he  was 
moved  to  essay  the  realization  of  this  ideal  and  was  for  a 
time  betrothed  to  Karoline  von  Feuchtersleben,  her  aristo- 
cratic connections  being  partially  reconciled  to  the  mesal- 
liance by  Richter's  appointment  as  Legationsrat.  He 
begins  already  to  look  forward,  a  little  ruefully,  to  the  time 
when  his  heart  shall  be  "  an  extinct  marriage-crater,"  and 
after  a  visit  to  Berlin,  where  he  basked  in  the  smiles  of 
Queen  Luise,  he  was  again  betrothed,  this  time  to  the  less 
intellectually  gifted,  but  as  devoted  and  better  dowered 
Karoline  Mayer,  whom  he  married  in  1801.  He  was  then 
in  his  thirty-eighth  year. 

Richter's  marriage  is  cardinal  in  his  career.  Some 
imaginative  work  he  was  still  to  do,  but  the  dominant 
interests  were  hereafter  to  be  in  education  and  in  political 
action.  In  his  own  picturesque  language,  hitherto  his  quest 
had  been  for  the  golden  fleece  of  womanhood,  hereafter  it 
was  to  be  for  a  crusade  of  men.  The  change  had  been 
already  foreshadowed  in  1799  by  his  stirring  paper  On 
Charlotte  Corday  (published  in  1801). 

Titan,  which  Jean  Paul  regarded  as  his  ' '  principal  work 
and  most  complete  creation,"  had  been  in  his  mind  since 
1792.  It  was  begun  in  1797  and  finished,  soon  after  his 
betrothal,  in  1800.  In  this  novel  the  thought  of  God  and 
immortality  is  offered  as  a  solution  of  all  problems  of 
nature  and  society.  Titan  is  human  will  in  contest  with  the 
divine  harmony.     The  maturing  Richter  has  come  to  see 


12  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

that  idealism  in  thought  and  feeling  must  be  balanced  by- 
realism  in  action  if  the  thinker  is  to  bear  his  part  in  the 
work  of  the  world.  The  novel  naturally  falls  far  short  of 
realizing  its  vast  design.  Once  more  the  parts  are  more 
than  the  whole.  Some  descriptive  passages  are  very 
remarkable  and  the  minor  characters,  notably  Roquairol, 
the  Mephistophelean  Lovelace,  are  more  interesting  than 
the  hero  or  the  heroine.  The  unfinished  Wild  Oats  of  1804, 
follows  a  somewhat  similar  design.  The  story  of  Walt 
and  Vult,  twin  brothers,  Love  and  Knowledge,  offers  a 
study  in  contrasts  between  the  dreamy  and  the  practical, 
with  much  self -revelation  of  the  antinomy  in  the  author's 
own  nature.  There  is  something  here  to  recall  his  early 
satires,  much  more  to  suggest  Goethe's  Wilhelm  Meister. 

While  Wild  Oats  was  in  the  making,  Richter  with  his 
young  wife  and  presently  their  first  daughter,  Emma,  was 
making  a  sort  of  triumphal  progress  among  the  court  towns 
of  Germany.  He  received  about  this  time  from  Prince 
Dalberg  a  pension,  afterward  continued  by  the  King  of 
Bavaria.  In  1804  the  family  settled  in  Bayreuth,  which 
was  to  remain  Richter 's  not  always  happy  home  till  his 
death  in  1825. 

The  move  to  Bayreuth  was  marked  by  the  appearance  of 
Introduction  to  Esthetics,  a  book  that,  even  in  remaining 
a  fragment,  shows  the  parting  of  the  ways.  Under  its 
frolicsome  exuberance  there  is  keen  analysis,  a  fine  nobility 
of  temper,  and  abundant  subtle  observation.  The  phi- 
losophy was  Herder's,  and  a  glowing  eulogy  of  him  closes 
the  study.  Its  most  original  and  perhaps  most  valuable 
section  contains  a  shrewd  discrimination  of  the  varieties 
of  humor,  and  ends  with  a  brilliant  praise  of  wit,  as  though 
in  a  recapitulating  review  of  Richter 's  own  most  distinctive 
contribution  to  German  literature. 

The  first  fruit  to  ripen  at  the  Bayreuth  home  was  Levana, 
finished  in  October,  1806,  just  as  Napoleon  was  crushing 
the  power  of  Prussia  at  Jena.  Though  disconnected  and 
unsystematic  Levana  has  been  for  three  generations  a  true 


JEAN  PAUL  13 

yeast  of  pedagogical  ideas,  especially  in  regard  to  the 
education  of  women  and  their  social  position  in  Germany. 
Against  the  ignorance  of  the  then  existing  conditions 
Jean  Paul  raised  eloquent  and  indignant  protest.  ' '  Your 
teachers,  your  companions,  even  your  parents,"  he  ex- 
claims, ''  trample  and  crush  the  little  flowers  you  shelter 
and  cherish.  *  *  *  Your  hands  are  used  more  than 
your  heads.  They  let  you  play,  but  only  with  your  fans. 
Nothing  is  pardoned  you,  least  of  all  a  heart."  What 
Levana  says  of  the  use  and  abuse  of  philology  and  about 
the  study  of  history  as  a  preparation  for  political  action 
is  no  less  significant.  Goethe,  who  had  been  reticent  of 
praise  in  regard  to  the  novels,  found  in  Levana  "  the 
boldest  virtues  without  the  least  excess." 

From  the  education  of  children  for  life  Richter  turned 
naturally  to  the  education  of  his  fellow  Germans  for  citizen- 
ship. It  was  a  time  of  national  crisis.  Already  in  1805  he 
had  published  a  Little  Book  of  Freedom,  in  protest  against 
the  censorship  of  books.  Now"  to  his  countrymen,  oppressed 
by  Napoleon,  he  addressed  at  intervals  from  1808  to  1810, 
a  Peace  Sermon,  Twilight  Thoughts  for  Germany  and  After 
Twilight.  Then,  as  the  fires  of  Moscow  heralded  a  new 
day,  came  Butterflies  of  the  Dawn;  and  when  the  War  of 
Liberation  was  over  and  the  German  rulers  had  proved 
false  to  their  promises,  these  ' '  Butterflies  ' '  were  expanded 
and  transformed,  in  1817,  into  Political  Fast-Sermons  for 
Germany's  Martyr-Week,  in  which  Richter  denounced  the 
princes  for  their  faithlessness  as  boldly  as  he  had  done  the 
sycophants  of  Bonaparte. 

Most  noteworthy  of  the  minor  writings  of  this  period  is 
Dr.  Katzenberger's  Journey  to  the  Baths,  published  in 
1809.  The  effect  of  this  rollicking  satire  on  affectation  and 
estheticism  w^as  to  arouse  a  more  manly  spirit  in  the  nation 
and  so  it  helped  to  prepare  for  the  way  of  liberation.  The 
patriotic  youth  of  Germany  now  began  to  speak  and  think  of 
Richter  as  Jean  Paul  the  Unique.  In  the  years  that  follow 
Waterloo  every  little  journey  that  Richter  took  was  made 


14  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

the  occasion  of  public  receptions  and  festivities.  Meanwhile 
life  in  the  Bayreuth  home  grew  somewhat  strained.  Both 
partners  might  well  have  heeded  Levana's  counsel  that 
' '  Men  should  show  more  love,  women  more  common  sense. ' ' 

Of  Richter's  last  decade  two  books  only  call  for  notice 
here,  Truth  about  Jean  Paul's  Life,  a  fragment  of  auto- 
biography written  in  1819,  and  The  Comet,  a  novel,  also 
unfinished,  published  at  intervals  from  1820  to  1822. 
Hitherto,  said  Richter  of  The  Comet,  he  had  paid  too  great 
deference  to  rule,  "  like  a  child  born  curled  and  forthwith 
stretched  on  a  swathing  cushion."  Now,  in  his  maturity, 
he  will,  he  says,  let  himself  go;  and  a  wild  tale  he  makes 
of  it,  exuberant  in  fancy,  rich  in  comedy,  unbridled  in 
humor.  The  Autobiography  extends  only  to  Schwarzen- 
bach  and  his  confirmation,  but  of  all  his  writings  it  has 
perhaps  the  greatest  charm. 

Richter 's  last  years  were  clouded  by  disease,  mental  and 
physical,  and  by  the  death  of  his  son  Max.  A  few  weeks 
before  his  own  death  he  arranged  for  an  edition  of  his  com- 
plete works,  for  which  he  w^as  to  receive  35,000  thaler 
($26,000).  For  this  he  sought  a  special  privilege,  copy- 
right being  then  very  imperfect  in  Germany,  on  the  ground 
that  in  all  his  works  not  one  line  could  be  found  to  offend 
religion  or  virtue. 

He  died  on  November  14,  1825.  On  the  evening  of 
November  17  was  the  funeral.  Civil  and  military,  state 
and  city  officials  took  part  in  it.  On  the  bier  was  borne 
the  unfinished  manuscript  of  Selina,  an  essay  on  immor- 
tality. Sixty  students  with  lighted  torches  escorted  the 
procession.  Other  students  bore,  displayed,  Levana  and 
the  Introduction  to  Esthetics. 

Sixteen  years  after  Richter 's  death  the  King  of  Bavaria 
erected  a  statue  to  him  in  Bayreuth.  But  his  most  endur- 
ing monument  had  already  long  been  raised  in  the  funeral 
oration  by  Ludwig  Borne  at  Frankfurt.  * '  A  Star  has  set, ' ' 
said  the  orator,  ''  and  the  eye  of  this  century  will  close 
before  it  rises  again,  for  bright  genius  moves  in  wide  orbits 


JEAN  PAUL  15 

and  our  distant  descendants  will  be  first  again  to  bid  glad 
welcome  to  that  from  which  their  fathers  have  taken  sad 
leave.  *  *  *  We  shall  mourn  for  him  whom  we  have 
lost  and  for  those  others  who  have  not  lost  him,  for  he  has 
not  lived  for  all.  Yet  a  time  will  come  when  he  shall  be 
born  for  all  and  all  will  lament  him.  But  he  will  stand 
patient  on  the  threshold  of  the  twentieth  century  and  wait 
smiling  till  his  creeping  people  shall  come  to  join  him." 


QUINTUS  FIXLEIN'S  WEDDING* 

From  The  Life  of  Quintus  Fixlein  (1796) 
By  Jean  Paul 

TRANSLATED   BY    T.    CARLYLE 

[T  the  sound  of  the  morning  prayer-bell,  the 
bridegroom  —  for  the  din  of  preparation  was 
disturbing  his  quiet  orison  —  went  out  into 
the  churchyard,  which  (as  in  many  other 
places)  together  with  the  church,  lay  round 
his  mansion  like  a  court.  Here,  on  the  moist  green,  over 
whose  closed  flowers  the  churchyard  wall  was  still  spread- 
ing broad  shadows,  did  his  spirit  cool  itself  from  the  warm 
dreams  of  Earth:  here,  where  the  white  flat  grave-stone 
of  his  Teacher  lay  before  him  like  the  fallen-in  door  of  the 
Janus-temple  of  life,  or  like  the  windward  side  of  the 
narrow  house,  turned  toward  the  tempests  of  the  world: 
here,  where  the  little  shrunk  metallic  door  on  the  grated 
cross  of  his  father  uttered  to  him  the  inscriptions  of  death, 
and  the  year  when  his  parent  departed,  and  all  the  admoni- 
tions and  mementos,  graven  on  the  lead  —  there,  I  say,  his 
mood  grew  softer  and  more  solemn;  and  he  now  lifted  up 
by  heart  his  morning  prayer,  which  usually  he  read,  and 
entreated  God  to  bless  him  in  his  office,  and  to  spare  his 
mother 's  life,  and  to  look  with  favor  and  acceptance  on  the 
purpose  of  today.  Then,  over  the  graves,  he  walked  into 
his  fenceless  little  angular  flower-garden;  and  here,  com- 
posed and  confident  in  the  divine  keeping,  he  pressed  the 
stalks  of  his  tulips  deeper  into  the  mellow  earth. 

But  on  returning  to  the  house,  he  was  met  on  all  hands 
by  the  bell-ringing  and  the  Janizary-music  of  wedding- 
gladness;  the  marriage-guests  had  all  thrown  off  their 
nightcaps,  and  were  drinking  diligently;  there  was  a  clat- 
tering, a  cooking,  a  frizzling;  tea-services,  coffee-services, 
and  warm  beer-services,  were  advancing  in  succession ;  and 
plates  full  of  bride-cakes  were  going  round  like  potter's 

*  Permission  Porter  &  Coates,  Philadelphia. 

[16] 


QUINTUS  FIXLEIN'S  WEDDING  17 

frames  or  cistern-wheels.  The  Schoolmaster,  with  three 
young  lads,  was  heard  rehearsing  from  his  own  house  an 
Arioso,  with  which,  so  soon  as  they  were  perfect,  he  pur- 
posed to  surprise  his  clerical  superior.  But  now  rushed 
all  the  arms  of  the  foaming  joy-streams  into  one,  when  the 
sky-queen  besprinkled  with  blossoms  the  bride,  descended 
upon  Earth  in  her  timid  joy,  full  of  quivering,  humble  love ; 
when  the  bells  began ;  when  the  procession-column  set  forth 
with  the  whole  village  round  and  before  it;  when  the  organ, 
the  congregation,  the  officiating  priest,  and  the  sparrows 
on  the  trees  of  the  church-window,  struck  louder  and  louder 
their  rolling  peals  on  the  drum  of  the  jubilee-festival. 
*  *  *  The  heart  of  the  singing  bridegroom  was  like  to 
leap  from  its  place  for  joy  *'  that  on  his  bridal-day  it  was 
all  so  respectable  and  grand."  Not  till  the  marriage  bene- 
diction could  he  pray  a  little. 

Still  worse  and  louder  grew  the  business  during  dinner, 
when  pastry-work  and  march-pane-devices  were  brought 
forward,  when  glasses,  and  slain  fishes  (laid  under  the 
napkins  to  frighten  the  guests)  went  round,  and  when  the 
guests  rose  and  themselves  went  round,  and,  at  length, 
danced  round:  for  they  had  instrumental  music  from  the 
cit}^  there. 

One  minute  handed  over  to  the  other  the  sugar-bowl  and 
bottle-case  of  joy:  the  guests  heard  and  saw  less  and  less, 
and  the  villagers  began  to  see  and  hear  more  and  more,  and 
toward  night  they  penetrated  like  a  wedge  into  the  open 
door  —  nay,  two  youths  ventured  even  in  the  middle  of  the 
parsonage-court  to  mount  a  plank  over  a  beam  and  com- 
mence seesawing.  Out  of  doors,  the  gleaming  vapor  of  the 
departed  sun  was  encircling  the  earth,  the  evening-star 
was  glittering  over  parsonage  and  churchyard;  no  one 
heeded  it. 

However,  about  nine  o'clock,  when  the  marriage-guests 
had  well  nigh  forgotten  the  marriage-pair,  and  were  drink- 
ing or  dancing  along  for  their  own  behoof;  when  poor 
mortals,  in  this  sunshine  of  Fate,  like  fishes  in  the  sunshine 

Vol.  IV  — 2 


18  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

of  the  sky,  were  leaping  up  from  their  wet  cold  element; 
and  when  the  bridegroom  under  the  star  of  happiness  and 
love,  casting  like  a  comet  its  long  train  of  radiance  over 
all  his  heaven,  had  in  secret  pressed  to  his  joy-filled  breast 
his  bride  and  his  mother  —  then  did  he  lock  a  slice  of  wed- 
ding-bread privily  into  a  press,  in  the  old  superstitious 
belief  that  this  residue  secured  continuance  of  bread  for  the 
whole  marriage.  As  he  returned,  with  greater  love  for 
the  sole  partner  of  his  life,  she  herself  met  him  with  his 
mother,  to  deliver  him  in  private  the  bridal-nightgown  and 
bridal-shirt,  as  is  the  ancient  usage.  Many  a  countenance 
grows  pale  in  violent  emotions,  even  of  joy.  Thiennette's 
wax-face  was  bleaching  still  whiter  under  the  sunbeams  of 
Happiness.  0,  never  fall,  thou  lily  of  Heaven,  and  may 
four  springs  instead  of  four  seasons  open  and  shut  thy 
flower-bells  to  the  sun!  All  the  arms  of  his  soul,  as  he 
floated  on  the  sea  of  joy,  were  quivering  to  clasp  the  soft 
warm  heart  of  his  beloved,  to  encircle  it  gently  and  fast, 
and  draw  it  to  his  own. 

He  led  her  from  the  crowded  dancing-room  into  the  cool 
evening.  Why  does  the  evening,  does  the  night,  put 
warmer  love  in  our  hearts?  Is  it  the  nightly  pressure  of 
helplessness  or  is  it  the  exalting  separation  from  the  tur- 
moil of  life  —  that  veiling  of  the  world,  in  which  for  the 
soul  nothing  more  remains  but  souls ;  —  is  it  therefore  that 
the  letters  in  which  the  loved  name  stands  written  on  our 
spirit  appear,  like  phosphorus-writing,  by  night,  in  firCy 
while  by  day  in  their  cloudy  traces  they  but  smoke  ? 

He  walked  with  his  bride  into  the  Castle  garden:  she 
hastened  quickly  through  the  Castle,  and  past  its  servants* 
hall,  where  the  fair  flowers  of  her  young  life  had  been 
crushed  broad  and  dry,  under  a  long  dreary  pressure ;  and 
her  soul  expanded  and  breathed  in  the  free  open  garden, 
on  whose  flowery  soil  destiny  had  cast  forth  the  first  seeds 
of  the  blossoms  which  today  were  gladdening  her  existence. 
Still  Eden!  Green  flower-chequered  chiaroscuro!  The 
moon  is  sleeping  under  ground  like  a  dead  one ;  but  beyond 


>;-:  .    _■>/  ll^-'i 


t^i'.' 


\i-<5  yijw^aiij'^  A 


BRIDAL   PROCESSION  ,  i 


From  the  Painfino  hv  LncftiHrj  Firhter 


QUiNTUS  FIXLEIN'S  WEDDING  19 

the  garden  the  sun's  red  evening-clouds  have  fallen  down 
like  rose-leaves ;  and  the  evening-star,  the  brideman  of  the 
sun,  hovers,  like  a  glancing  butterfly,  above  the  rosy  red, 
and,  modest  as  a  bride,  deprives  no  single  starlet  of  its 
light. 

The  wandering  pair  arrived  at  the  old  gardener's  hut, 
now  standing  locked  and  dumb,  with  dark  mndows  in  the 
light  garden,  like  a  fragment  of  the  Past  surviving  in  the 
Present.  Bared  twigs  of  trees  were  folding,  with  clammy 
half-formed  leaves,  over  the  thick  intertwisted  tangles  of 
the  bushes.  The  Spring  was  standing,  like  a  conqueror, 
with  Winter  at  his  feet.  In  the  blue  pond,  now  bloodless, 
a  dusky  evening  sky  lay  hollowed  out,  and  the  gushing 
waters  were  moistening  the  flower-beds.  The  silver  sparks 
of  stars  were  rising  on  the  altar  of  the  East,  and,  falling 
down,  were  extinguished  in  the  red  sea  of  the  West. 

The  wind  whirred,  like  a  night-bird,  louder  through  the 
trees,  and  gave  tones  to  the  acacia-grove;  and  the  tones 
called  to  the  pair  who  had  first  become  happy  within  it: 
"  Enter,  new  mortal  pair,  and  think  of  what  is  past,  and 
of  my  withering  and  your  own;  be  holy  as  Eternity,  and 
weep  not  only  for  joy,  but  for  gratitude  also!  "  And  the 
wet-eyed  bridegroom  led  his  wet-eyed  bride  under  the  blos- 
soms, and  laid  his  soul,  like  a  flower,  on  her  heart,  and  said : 
' '  Best  Thiennette,  I  am  unspeakably  happy,  and  would  say 
much,  but  cannot!  Ah,  thou  Dearest,  we  will  live  like 
angels,  like  children  together!  Surely  I  will  do  all  that 
is  good  to  thee ;  two  years  ago  I  had  nothing,  no,  nothing ; 
ah,  it  is  through  thee,  best  love,  that  I  am  happy.  I  call 
thee  Thou,  now,  thou  dear  good  soul !  ' '  She  drew  him 
closer  to  her,  and  said,  though  without  kissing  him:  **  Call 
me  Thou  always.  Dearest!  " 

And  as  they  stept  forth  again  from  the  sacred  grove 
into  the  magic-dusky  garden,  he  took  off  his  hat ;  first,  that 
he  might  internally  thank  God,  and,  secondly,  because  he 
wished  to  look  into  this  fairest  evening  sky. 

They  reached  the  blazing,  rustling,  marriage-house,  but 


20  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

their  softened  hearts  sought  stillness;  and  a  foreign  touch, 
as  in  the  blossoming  vine,  would  have  disturbed  the  flower- 
nuptials  of  their  souls.  They  turned  rather,  and  winded 
up  into  the  churchyard  to  preserve  their  mood.  Majestic 
on  the  groves  and  mountains  stood  the  Night  before  man's 
heart,  and  made  that  also  great.  Over  the  white  steeple- 
obelisk  the  sky  rested  bluer,  and  darker;  and,  behind  it, 
wavered  the  withered  summit  of  the  May-pole  with  faded 
flag.  The  son  noticed  his  father's  grave,  on  which  the  wind 
was  opening  and  shutting,  with  harsh  noise,  the  little  door 
of  the  metal  cross,  to  let  the  year  of  his  death  be  read  on  the 
brass  plate  within.  As  an  overpowering  sadness  seized 
his  heart  with  violent  streams  of  tears,  and  drove  him  to 
the  sunk  hillock,  he  led  his  bride  to  the  grave,  and  said: 
* '  Here  sleeps  he,  my  good  father ;  in  his  thirty-second  year 
he  was  carried  hither  to  his  long  rest.  0  thou  good,  dear 
father,  couldst  thou  today  but  see  the  happiness  of  thy  son, 
like  my  mother!  But  thy  eyes  are  empty,  and  thy  breast 
is  full  of  ashes,  and  thou  seest  us  not."  He  was  silent. 
The  bride  wept  aloud ;  she  saw  the  moldering  coffins  of  her 
parents  open,  and  the  two  dead  arise  and  look  round  for 
their  daughter,  who  had  stayed  so  long  behind  them,  for- 
saken on  the  earth.  She  fell  upon  his  heart,  and  faltered : 
**  O  beloved,  I  have  neither  father  nor  mother.  Do  not 
forsake  me ! ' ' 

0  thou  who  hast  still  a  father  and  a  mother,  thank  God 
for  it,  on  the  day  when  thy  soul  is  full  of  joyful  tears  and 
needs  a  bosom  whereon  to  shed  them.     *     *     * 

And  with  this  embracing  at  a  father 's  grave,  let  this  day 
of  joy  be  holily  concluded. 


ROME* 

From  Titan  (1800) 
By  Jean  Paul 

TRANSLATED  BY  C.  T.  BROOKS 

[ALF  an  hour  after  the  earthquake  the  heavens 
•^^  lO'  swathed  themselves  in  seas,  and  dashed  them 
Jtt )\\)  down  in  masses  and  in  torrents.  The  naked 
Campagna  and  heath  were  covered  with  the 
mantle  of  rain.  Gaspard  was  silent,  the 
heavens  black;  the  great  thought  stood  alone  in  Albano 
that  he  was  hastening  on  toward  the  bloody  scaffold  and 
the  throne-scaffolding  of  humanity,  the  heart  of  a  cold, 
dead  heathen-world,  the  eternal  Eome ;  and  when  he  heard, 
on  the  Ponte  Molle,  that  he  was  now  going  across  the  Tiber, 
then  w^as  it  to  him  as  if  the  past  had  risen  from  the  dead, 
as  if  the  stream  of  time  ran  backward  and  bore  him  with  it; 
under  the  streams  of  heaven  he  heard  the  seven  old  moun- 
tain-streams, rushing  and  roaring,  which  once  came  down 
from  Rome 's  hills,  and,  with  seven  arms,  uphove  the  world 
from  its  foundations.  At  length  the  constellation  of  the 
mountain  city  of  God,  that  stood  so  broad  before  him, 
opened  out  into  distant  nights;  cities,  with  scattered  lights, 
lay  up  and  down,  and  the  bells  (which  to  his  ear  were 
alarm-bells)  sounded  out  the  fourth  hour;t  when  the 
carriage  rolled  through  the  triumphal  gate  of  the  city,  the 
Porta  del  Popolo,  then  the  moon  rent  her  black  heavens, 
and  poured  down  out  of  the  cleft  clouds  the  splendor  of 
a  whole  sky.  There  stood  the  Egyptian  Obelisk  of  the 
gateway,  high  as  the  clouds,  in  the  night,  and  three  streets 
ran  gleaming  apart.  *'  So,"  (said  Albano  to  himself,  as 
they  passed  through  the  long  Corso  to  the  tenth  ward) 
*'  thou  art  veritably  in  the  camp  of  the  God  of  war  —  here 
is  where  he  grasped  the  hilt  of  the  monstrous  war-sword, 

*  Permission  Porter   &   Coates,  Philadelphia, 
t  Ten  o'clock. 

[21] 


22  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

and  with  the  point  made  the  three  wounds  in  three  quarters 
of  the  world!"  Rain  and  splendor  gushed  through  the 
vast,  broad  streets ;  occasionally  he  passed  suddenly  along 
by  gardens,  and  into  broad  city-deserts  and  market-places 
of  the  past.  The  rolling  of  the  carriages  amidst  the  rush 
and  roar  of  the  rain  resembled  the  thunder  whose  days 
were  once  holy  to  this  heroic  city,  like  the  thundering 
heaven  to  the  thundering  earth;  muffled-up  forms,  with 
little  lights,  stole  through  the  dark  streets;  often  there 
stood  a  long  palace  with  colonnades  in  the  light  of  the 
moon,  often  a  solitary  gray  column,  often  a  single  high 
fir  tree,  or  a  statue  behind  cypresses.  Once,  when  there 
was  neither  rain  nor  moonshine,  the  carriage  went  round 
the  corner  of  a  large  house,  on  whose  roof  a  tall,  blooming 
virgin,  with  an  uplooking  child  on  her  arm,  herself  directed 
a  little  hand-light,  now  toward  a  white  statue,  now  toward 
the  child,  and  so,  alternately,  illuminated  each.  This 
friendly  group  made  its  way  to  the  very  centre  of  his 
soul,  now  so  highly  exalted,  and  brought  with  it,  to  him, 
many  a  recollection;  particularly  was  a  Roman  child  to  him 
a  wholly  new  and  mighty  idea. 

They  alighted  at  last  at  the  Prince  di  Laiiria's  — 
Gaspard's  father-in-law  and  old  friend.  *  *  *  Albano, 
dissatisfied  with  all,  kept  his  inspiration  sacrificing  to  the 
unearthly  gods  of  the  past  round  about  him,  after  the  old 
fashion,  namely,  with  silence.  Well  might  he  and  could 
he  have  discussed,  but  otherwise,  namely  in  odes,  with  the 
whole  man,  with  streams  which  mount  and  grow  upward. 
He  looked  even  more  and  more  longingly  out  of  the  window 
at  the  moon  in  the  pure  rain-blue,  and  at  single  columns 
of  the  Forum;  out  of  doors  there  gleamed  for  him  the 
greatest  world.  At  last  he  rose  up,  indignant  and  im- 
patient, and  stole  down  into  the  glimmering  glory,  and 
stepped  before  the  Forum;  but  the  moonlit  night,  that 
decoration-painter,  which  works  with  irregular  strokes, 
made  almost  the  very  stage  of  the  scene  irrecognizable  to 
him. 


ROME  23 

What  a  dreary,  broad  plain,  loftily  encompassed  with 
ruins,  gardens  and  temples,  covered  with  prostrate  capitals 
of  columns,  and  with  single,  upright  pillars,  and  with  trees 
and  a  dumb  wilderness!  The  heaped-up  ashes  out  of  the 
emptied  urn  of  Time !  And  the  potsherds  of  a  great  world 
flung  around !  He  passed  by  three  temple  columns,*  which 
the  earth  had  drawn  down  into  itself  even  to  the  breast, 
and  along  through  the  broad  triumphal  arch  of  Septimius 
Severus;  on  the  right,  stood  a  chain  of  columns  without 
their  temple;  on  the  left,  attached  to  a  Christian  church, 
the  colonnade  of  an  ancient  heathen  temple,  deep  sunken 
into  the  sediment  of  time;  at  last  the  triumphal  arch  of 
Titus,  and  before  it,  in  the  middle  of  the  woody  wilderness, 
a  fountain  gushing  into  a  granite  basin. 

He  went  up  to  this  fountain,  in  order  to  survey  the  plain 
out  of  which  the  thunder  months  of  the  earth  once  arose; 
but  he  went  along  as  over  a  burnt-out  sun,  hung  round 
with  dark,  dead  earths.  ' '  0  Man,  0  the  dreams  of  Man !  ' ' 
something  within  him  unceasingly  cried.  He  stood  on  the 
granite  margin,  turning  toward  the  Coliseum,  whose 
mountain  ridges  of  wall  stood  high  in  the  moonlight,  with 
the  deep  gaps  which  had  been  hewn  in  them  by  the  scythe 
of  Time.  Sharply  stood  the  rent  and  ragged  arches  of 
Nero's  golden  house  close  by,  like  murderous  cutlasses. 
The  Palatine  Hill  lay  full  of  green  gardens,  and,  in 
crumbling  temple-roofs,  the  blooming  death-garland  of  ivy 
was  gnawing,  and  living  ranunculi  still  glowed  around 
sunken  capitals.  The  fountain  murmured  babblingly  and 
forever,  and  the  stars  gazed  steadfastly  down,  with  transi- 
tory rays,  upon  the  still  battlefield  over  which  the  winter 
of  time  had  passed  without  bringing  after  it  a  spring; 
the  fiery  soul  of  the  world  had  flown  up,  and  the  cold, 
crumbling  giant  lay  around ;  torn  asunder  were  the  gigantic 
spokes  of  the  main-wheel,  which  once  the  very  stream  of 
ages  drove.  And  in  addition  to  all  this,  the  moon  shed 
down  her  light  like  eating  silver-water  upon  the  naked 

•  Of  Jupiter  Tonans. 


24  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

columns,  and  would  fain  have  dissolved  the  Coliseum  and 
the  temples  and  all  into  their  own  shadows ! 

Then  Albano  stretched  out  his  arm  into  the  air,  as  if  he 
were  giving  an  embrace  and  flowing  away  as  in  the  arms 
of  a  stream,  and  exclaimed,  **  0  ye  mighty  shades,  ye,  who 
once  strove  and  lived  here,  ye  are  looking  down  from 
Heaven,  but  scornfully,  not  sadly,  for  your  great  fatherland 
has  died  and  gone  after  you !  Ah,  had  I,  on  the  insignificant 
earth,  full  of  old  eternity  which  you  have  made  great,  only 
done  one  action  worthy  of  you!  Then  were  it  sweet  to  me 
and  legitimate  to  open  my  heart  by  a  wound,  and  to  mix 
earthly  blood  with  the  hallowed  soil,  and,  out  of  the  world 
of  graves,  to  hasten  aw^ay  to  you,  eternal  and  immortal 
ones !  But  I  am  not  worthy  of  it !  " 

At  this  moment  there  came  suddenly  along  up  the  Via 
Sacra  a  tall  man,  deeply  enveloped  in  a  mantle,  who  drew 
near  the  fountain  without  looking  round,  threw  down  his 
hat,  and  held  a  coal-black,  curly,  almost  perpendicular, 
hindhead  under  the  stream  of  water.  But  hardly  had  he, 
turning  upward,  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  profile  of  Albano, 
absorbed  in  his  fancies,  when  he  started  up,  all  dripping, 
stared  at  the  count,  fell  into  an  amazement,  threw  his  arms 
high  into  the  air,  and  said,  ^^Amico!  "  Albano  looked  at 
him.  The  stranger  said,  "-Albano!  "  "  My  Dian!  "  cried 
Albano;  they  clasped  each  other  passionately  and  wept 
for  love. 

Dian  could  not  comprehend  it  at  all;  he  said  in  Italian: 
* '  But  it  surely  cannot  be  you ;  you  look  old. ' '  He  thought 
he  was  speaking  German  all  the  time,  till  he  heard  Albano 
answer  in  Italian.  Both  gave  and  received  only  questions. 
Albano  found  the  architect  merely  browner,  but  there  was 
the  lightning  of  the  eyes  and  every  faculty  in  its  old  glory. 
With  three  words  he  related  to  him  the  journey,  and  who 
the  company  were.  "  How  does  Rome  strike  you?  "  asked 
Dian,  pleasantly.  *'As  life  does,"  replied  Albano,  very 
seriously,  '  *  it  makes  me  too  soft  and  too  hard. "  ' '  I  rec- 
ognize here  absolutely  nothing  at  all,"  he  continued;  "  do 


ROME  25 

those  columns  belong  to  the  magnificent  temple  of  Peace  ? ' ' 
*  *  No, ' '  said  Dian,  * '  to  the  temple  of  Concord ;  of  the  other 
there  stands  yonder  nothing  but  the  vault. "  "  Where  is 
Saturn 's  temple  ?  ' '  asked  Albano.  '  *  Buried  in  St.  Adrian 's 
church,"  said  Dian,  and  added  hastily:  "  Close  by  stand 
the  ten  columns  of  Antonine's  temple;  over  beyond  there 
the  baths  of  Titus ;  behind  us  the  Palatine  hill ;  and  so  on. 
Now  tell  me  —  !  " 

They  walked  up  and  down  the  Forum,  between  the  arches 
of  Titus  and  Severus.  Albano  (being  near  the  teacher  who, 
in  the  days  of  childhood,  had  so  often  conducted  him  hither- 
ward)  was  yet  full  of  the  stream  which  had  swept  over  the 
world,  and  the  all-covering  water  sunk  but  slowly.  He 
went  on  and  said:  ''  Today,  when  he  beheld  the  Obelisk, 
the  soft,  tender  brightness  of  the  moon  had  seemed  to  him 
eminently  unbecoming  for  the  giant  city;  he  would  rather 
have  seen  a  sun  blazing  on  its  broad  banner;  but  now  the 
moon  was  the  proper  funeral-torch  beside  the  dead  Alex- 
ander, who,  at  a  touch,  collapses  into  a  handful  of  dust." 
**  The  artist  does  not  get  far  with  feelings  of  this  kind," 
said  Dian,  ' '  he  must  look  upon  everlasting  beauties  on  the 
right  hand  and  on  the  left."  ''  Where,"  Albano  went  on 
asking,  **  is  the  old  lake  of  Curtius  —  the  Rostrum  —  the 
pila  Horatia  —  the  temple  of  Vesta  —  of  Venus,  and  of 
all  those  solitary  columns?  "  ''And  where  is  the  marble 
Forum  itself?  "  said  Dian;  *'  it  lies  thirty  span  deep  below 
our  feet. "  "  "Where  is  the  great,  free  people,  the  senate  of 
kings,  the  voice  of  the  orators,  the  procession  to  the 
Capitol?  Buried  under  the  mountain  of  potsherds !  0  Dian, 
how  can  a  man  who  loses  a  father,  a  beloved,  in  Rome  shed 
a  single  tear  or  look  round  him  with  consternation,  when 
he  comes  out  here  before  this  battle-field  of  time  and  looks 
into  the  charnel-house  of  the  nations?  Dian,  one  would 
wish  here  an  iron  heart,  for  fate  has  an  iron  hand ! ' ' 

Dian,  who  nowhere  stayed  more  reluctantly  than  upon 
such  tragic  cliffs  hanging  over,  as  it  were,  into  the  sea  of 
eternity,  almost  leaped  off  from  them  with  a  joke ;  like  the 


26  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

Greeks,  he  blended  dances  with  tragedy!  "  Many  a  thing 
is  preserved  here,  friend!  "  said  he;  ''  in  Adrian's  church 
yonder  they  will  still  show  you  the  bones  of  the  three  men 
that  walked  in  the  fire."  ''  That  is  just  the  frightful  play 
of  destiny,"  replied  Alba  no,  '^  to  occupy  the  heights  of 
the  mighty  ancients  with  monks  shorn  down  into  slaves." 

**  The  stream  of  time  drives  new  wheels,"  said  Dian: 
''yonder  lies  Raphael  twice  buried.*  "  *  *  *  And  so 
they  climbed  silently  and  speedily  over  rubbish  and  torsos 
of  columns,  and  neither  gave  heed  to  the  mighty  emotion 
of  the  other. 

Rome,  like  the  Creation,  is  an  entire  wonder,  which 
gradually  dismembers  itself  into  new  wonders,  the  Coli- 
seum, the  Pantheon,  St.  Peter's  church,  Raphael,  etc. 

With  the  passage  through  the  church  of  St.  Peter,  the 
knight  began  the  noble  course  through  Immortality.  The 
Princess  let  herself,  by  the  tie  of  Art,  be  bound  to  the  circle 
of  the  men.  As  Albano  was  more  smitten  with  edifices  than 
with  any  other  work  of  man,  so  did  he  see  from  afar,  with 
holy  heart,  the  long  mountain-chain  of  Art,  which  again 
bore  upon  itself  hills,  so  did  he  stop  before  the  plain,  around 
which  the  enormous  colonnades  run  like  Corsos,  bearing 
a  people  of  statues.  In  the  centre  shoots  up  the  Obelisk, 
and  on  its  right  and  left  an  eternal  fountain,  and  from  the 
lofty  steps  the  proud  Church  of  the  world,  inwardly  filled 
with  churches,  rearing  upon  itself  a  temple  toward  Heaven, 
looks  down  upon  the  earth.  But  how  wonderfully,  as  they 
drew  near,  had  its  columns  and  its  rocky  wall  mounted  up 
and  flown  away  from  the  vision! 

He  entered  the  magic  church,  which  gave  the  world 
blessings,  curses,  kings  and  popes,  with  the  consciousness, 
that,  like  the  world-edifice,  it  was  continually  enlarging  and 
receding  more  and  more  the  longer  one  remained  in  it. 
They  went  up  to  two  children  of  white  marble  who  held 
an  incense-muscle-shell  of  yellow  marble ;  the  children  grew 
by  nearness  till  they  were  giants.     At  length  they  stood 

•  The  body  in  the  Pantheon,  the  head  in  Saint  Luke's  church. 


ROME  27 

at  the  main  altar  and  its  hundred  perpetual  lamps.  What 
a  place!  Above  them  the  heaven's  arch  of  the  dome,  rest- 
ing on  four  inner  towers;  around  them  an  over-arched 
city  of  four  streets  in  which  stood  churches.  The  temple 
became  greatest  by  walking  in  it;  and,  when  they  passed 
round  one  column,  there  stood  a  new  one  before  them,  and 
holy  giants  gazed  earnestly  down. 

Here  was  the  youth's  large  heart,  after  so  long  a  time, 
filled.  '  *  In  no  art, ' '  said  he  to  his  father,  ' '  is  the  soul 
so  mightily  possessed  with  the  sublime  as  in  architecture; 
in  every  other  the  giant  stands  within  and  in  the  depths  of 
the  soul,  but  here  he  stands  out  of  and  close  before  it." 
Dian,  to  whom  all  images  were  more  clear  than  abstract 
ideas,  said  he  was  perfectly  right.  Fraischdorfer  replied, 
' '  The  sublime  also  here  lies  only  in  the  brain,  for  the  whole 
church  stands,  after  all,  in  something  greater,  namely,  in 
Rome,  and  under  the  heavens;  in  the  presence  of  which 
latter  we  certainly  should  not  feel  anything."  He  also 
complained  that  *'  the  place  for  the  sublime  in  his  head  was 
very  much  narrowed  by  the  innumerable  volutes  and  monu- 
ments which  the  temple  shut  up  therein  at  the  same  time 
with  itself."  Gaspard,  taking  everything  in  a  large  sense, 
remarked,  '*  When  the  sublime  once  really  appears,  it  then, 
by  its  very  nature,  absorbs  and  annihilates  all  little  cir- 
cumstantial ornaments."  He  adduced  as  evidence  the 
tower  of  the  Minster,*  and  Nature  itself,  which  is  not  made 
smaller  by  its  grasses  and  villages. 

Among  so  many  connoisseurs  of  art,  the  Princess  en- 
joyed in  silence. 

The  ascent  of  the  dome  Gaspard  recommended  to  defer 
to  a  dry  and  cloudless  day,  in  order  that  they  might  behold 
the  queen  of  the  world,  Rome,  upon  and  from  the  proper 
throne;  he  therefore  proposed,  very  zealously,  the  visit- 
ing of  the  Pantheon,  because  he  was  eager  to  let  this  follow 
immediately  after  the  impression  of  Saint  Peter's  church. 
They  went  thither.     How  simply  and  grandly  the  hall 

*  Straasburg. 


28  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

opens!  Eight  yellow  columns  sustain  its  brow,  and  ma- 
jestically as  the  head  of  the  Homeric  Jupiter  its  temple 
arches  itself.  It  is  the  Rotunda  or  Pantheon.  "  0  the 
pigmies,"  cried  Albano,  "  who  would  fain  give  us  new 
temples!  Raise  the  old  ones  higher  out  of  the  rubbish, 
and  then  you  have  built  enough !  "  *  They  stepped  in. 
There  rose  round  about  them  a  holy,  simple,  free  world- 
structure,  with  its  heaven-arches  soaring  and  striving 
upward,  an  Odeum  of  the  tones  of  the  Sphere-music,  a 
world  in  the  world !  And  overheadf  the  eye-socket  of  the 
light  and  of  the  sky  gleamed  down,  and  the  distant  rack 
of  clouds  seemed  to  touch  the  lofty  arch  over  which  it  shot 
along!  And  round  about  them  stood  nothing  but  the 
temple-bearers,  the  columns!  The  temple  of  all  gods 
endured  and  concealed  the  diminutive  altars  of  the  later 
ones. 

Gaspard  questioned  Albano  about  his  impressions.  He 
said  he  preferred  the  larger  church  of  Saint  Peter.  The 
knight  approved,  and  said  that  youth,  like  nations,  always 
more  easily  found  and  better  appreciated  the  sublime  than 
the  beautiful,  and  that  the  spirit  of  the  young  man  ripened 
from  strong  to  beautiful,  as  the  body  of  the  same  ripens 
from  the  beautiful  into  the  strong;  however,  he  him- 
self preferred  the  Pantheon.  **  How  could  the  moderns," 
said  the  Counsellor  of  Arts,  Fraischdorfer,  ''build  any- 
thing, except  some  little  Bernini-like  turrets?  "  "  That  is 
why,"  said  the  offended  Provincial  Architect,  Dian  (who 
despised  the  Counsellor  of  Arts,  because  he  never  made  a 
good  figure  except  in  the  esthetic  hall  of  judgment  as 
critic,  never  in  the  exhibition-hall  as  painter),  "we  mod- 
erns are,  without  contradiction,  stronger  in  criticism; 
though  in  practice  we  are,  collectively  and  individually, 
blockheads."  Bouverot  remarked  that  the  Corinthian  col- 
umns might  be  higher.  The  Counsellor  of  Arts  said  that 
after  all  he  knew  nothing  more  like  this  fine  hemisphere 

*  The  hall  of  the  Pantheon  seems  too  low,  because  a  part  of  its  steps  is 
hidden  by  the  rubbish. 

t  This  opening  in  the  roof  is  twenty-seven  feet  in  diameter. 


ROME  29 

than  a  much  smaller  one,  which  he  had  found  in  Hercu- 
laneum  molded  in  ashes,  of  the  bosom  of  a  fair  fugitive." 
The  knight  laughed,  and  Albano  turned  away  in  disgust 
and  went  to  the  Princess. 

He  asked  her  for  her  opinion  about  the  two  temples. 
''  Sophocles  here,  Shakespeare  there;  but  I  comprehend 
and  appreciate  Sophocles  more  easily,"  she  replied,  and 
looked  with  new  eyes  into  his  new  countenance.  For  the 
supernatural  illumination  through  the  zenith  of  Heaven, 
not  through  a  hazy  horizon,  transfigured,  in  her  eyes,  the 
beautiful  and  excited  countenance  of  the  youth;  and  she 
took  for  granted  that  the  saintly  halo  of  the  dome  must 
also  exalt  her  form.  When  he  answered  her :  ' '  Very  good ! 
But  in  Shakespeare,  Sophocles  also  is  contained,  not,  how- 
ever, Shakespeare  in  Sophocles  —  and  upon  Peter's  Church 
stands  Angelo  's  Rotunda !  ' ',  just  then  the  lofty  cloud,  all 
at  once,  as  by  the  blow  of  a  hand  out  of  the  ether,  broke  in 
two,  and  the  ravished  Sun,  like  the  eye  of  a  Venus  floating 
through  her  ancient  heavens  —  for  she  once  stood  even 
here  —  looked  mildly  in  from  the  upper  deep;  then  a  holy 
radiance  filled  the  temple,  and  burned  on  the  porphyry  of 
the  pavement,  and  Albano  looked  around  him  in  an  ecstasy 
of  wonder  and  delight,  and  said  with  low  voice :  ' '  How 
transfigured  at  this  moment  is  everything  in  this  sacred 
place!  Raphael's  spirit  comes  forth  from  his  grave  in 
this  noontide  hour,  and  everything  which  its  reflection 
touches  brightens  into  godlike  splendor !  ' '  The  Princess 
looked  upon  him  tenderly,  and  he  lightly  laid  his  hand  upon 
hers,  and  said,  as  one  vanquished,  ''  Sophocles!  " 

On  the  next  moonlit  evening,  Gaspard  bespoke  torches, 
in  order  that  the  Coliseum,  with  its  giant-circle,  might  the 
first  time  stand  in  fire  before  them.  The  knight  would 
fain  have  gone  around  alone  with  his  son,  dimly  through 
the  dim  work,  like  two  spirits  of  the  olden  time,  but  the 
Princess  forced  herself  upon  him,  from  a  too  lively  wish 
to  share  with  the  noble  youth  his  great  moments,  and  per- 
haps, in  fact,  her  heart  and  his  own.     Women  do  not  suffi- 


30  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

ciently  comprehend  that  an  idea,  when  it  fills  and  elevates 
man's  mind,  shuts  it,  then,  against  love,  and  crowds  out 
persons;  whereas  with  woman  all  ideas  easily  become 
human  beings. 

They  passed  over  the  Forum,  by  the  Via  Sacra,  to  the 
Coliseum,  whose  lofty,  cloven  forehead  looked  down  pale 
under  the  moonlight.  They  stood  before  the  gray  rock- 
walls,  which  reared  themselves  on  four  colonnades  one 
above  another,  and  the  torchlight  shot  up  into  the  arches 
of  the  arcades,  gilding  the  green  shrubbery  high  overhead, 
and  deep  in  the  earth  had  the  noble  monster  already  buried 
his  feet.  They  stepped  in  and  ascended  the  mountain,  full 
of  fragments  of  rock,  from  one  seat  of  the  spectators  to 
another,  Gaspard  did  not  venture  to  the  sixth  or  highest, 
where  the  men  used  to  stand,  but  Albano  and  the  Princess 
did.  Then  the  youth  gazed  down  over  the  cliffs,  upon  the 
round,  green  crater  of  the  burnt-out  volcano,  which  once 
swallowed  nine  thousand  beasts  at  once,  and  which  quenched 
itself  with  human  blood.  The  lurid  glare  of  the  torches 
penetrated  into  the  clefts  and  caverns,  and  among  the 
foliage  of  the  ivy  and  laurel,  and  among  the  great  shadows 
of  the  moon,  which,  like  departed  spirits,  hovered  in  caverns. 
Toward  the  south,  where  the  streams  of  centuries  and  bar- 
barians had  stormed  in,  stood  single  columns  and  bare 
arcades.  Temples  and  three  palaces  had  the  giant  fed  and 
lined  with  his  limbs,  and  still,  with  all  his  wounds,  he  looked 
out  livingly  into  the  world. 

*  *  What  a  people !  ' '  said  Albano.  '  *  Here  curled  the 
giant  snake  five  times  about  Christianity.  Like  a  smile  of 
scorn  lies  the  moonlight  down  below  there  upon  the  green 
arena,  where  once  stood  the  Colossus  of  the  Sun-god.  The 
star  of  the  north*  glimmers  low  through  the  windows,  and 
the  Serpent  and  the  Bear  crouch.  What  a  world  has  gone 
by !  "  The  Princess  answered  that  * '  twelve  thousand  pris- 
oners built  this  theatre,  and  that  a  great  many  more  had 

•The  Pole-star,  as  well  as  other  northern  constellations,  stands  lower  in 
the  south. 


ROME  31 

bled  therein."  ''  0 1  we  too  have  building  prisoners,"  said 
he,  ''  but  for  fortifications;  and  blood,  too,  still  flows,  but 
with  sweat !  No,  we  have  no  present ;  the  past,  without  it, 
must  bring  forth  a  future. ' ' 

The  Princess  went  to  break  a  laurel-twig  and  pluck  a 
blooming  wall-flower.  Albano  sank  away  into  musing :  the 
autumnal  wind  of  the  past  swept  over  the  stubble.  On 
this  holy  eminence  he  saw  the  constellations,  Rome's  green 
hills,  the  glimmering  city,  the  Pyramid  of  Cestius ;  but  all 
became  Past,  and  on  the  twelve  hills  dwelt,  as  upon  graves, 
the  lofty  old  spirits,  and  looked  sternly  into  the  age,  as 
if  they  were  still  its  kings  and  judges. 

'  *  This  to  remember  the  place  and  time !  ' '  said  the 
approaching  Princess,  handing  him  the  laurel  and  the 
flower.  * '  Thou  mighty  One !  a  Coliseum  is  thy  flower-pot ; 
to  thee  is  nothing  too  great,  and  nothing  too  small !  ' '  said 
he,  and  threw  the  Princess  into  considerable  confusion,  till 
she  observed  that  he  meant  not  her,  but  nature.  His  whole 
being  seemed  newly  and  painfully  moved,  and,  as  it  were, 
removed  to  a  distance:  he  looked  down  after  his  father, 
and  went  to  find  him;  he  looked  at  him  sharply,  and  spoke 
of  nothing  more  this  evening. 


THE  OPENING  OF  THE  WILL 

From  the  Flegeljahre  (1804) 
By  Jean  Paul 

TRANSLATED  BY  FRANCES  H.  KING 

[INCE  Haslau  had  been  a  princely  residence  no 
one  could  remember  any  event  —  the  birth  of 
the  heir  apparent  excepted  —  that  had  been 
awaited  with  such  curiosity  as  the  opening 
of  the  Van  der  Kabel  will.  Van  der  Kabel 
might  have  been  called  the  Haslau  Crcesus  —  and  his  life 
described  as  a  pleasure-making  mint,  or  a  washing  of  gold 
sand  under  a  golden  rain,  or  in  whatever  other  terms  wit 
could  devise.  Now,  seven  distant  living  relatives  of  seven 
distant  deceased  relatives  of  Kabel  were  cherishing  some 
hope  of  a  legacy,  because  the'  Croesus  had  sworn  to  remem- 
ber them.  These  hopes,  however,  were  very  faint.  No  one 
was  especially  inclined  to  trust  him,  as  he  not  only  con- 
ducted himself  on  all  occasions  in  a  gruffly  moral  and  unsel- 
fish manner  —  in  regard  to  morality,  to  be  sure,  the  seven 
relatives  were  still  beginners  —  but  likewise  treated  every- 
thing so  derisively  and  possessed  a  heart  so  full  of  tricks 
and  surprises  that  there  was  no  dependence  to  be  placed 
upon  him.  The  eternal  smile  hovering  around  his  temples 
and  thick  lips,  and  the  mocking  falsetto  voice,  impaired  the 
good  impression  that  might  otherwise  have  been  made  by 
his  nobly  cut  face  and  a  pair  of  large  hands,  from  which 
New  Year's  presents, benefit  performances,  and  gratuities 
were  continually  falling.  Wherefore  the  birds  of  passage 
proclaimed  the  man,  this  human  mountain-ash  in  which 
they  nested  and  of  whose  berries  they  ate,  to  be  in  reality 
a  dangerous  trap;  and  they  seemed  hardly  able  to  see  the 
visible  berries  for  the  invisible  snares. 

Between  two  attacks  of  apoplexy  he  made  his  will  and 
deposited  it  with  the  magistrate.     Though  half  dead  when 

[32] 


THE  OPENING  OF  THE  WILL  33 

he  gave  over  the  certificate  to  the  seven  presumptive  heirs 
he  said  in  his  old  tone  of  voice  that  he  did  not  wish  this 
token  of  his  decease  to  cause  dejection  to  mature  men 
whom  he  would  much  rather  think  of  as  laughing  than  as 
weeping  heirs.  And  only  one  of  them,  the  coldly  ironical 
Police-Inspector  Harprecht,  answered  the  smilingly  ironical 
Crcesus :  ' '  It  was  not  in  their  power  to  determine  the 
extent  of  their  collective  sjTiipathy  in  such  a  loss." 

At  last  the  seven  heirs  appeared  with  their  certificate 
at  the  city  hall.  These  were  the  Consistorial  Councilor 
Glanz,  the  Police  Inspector,  the  Court-Agent  Neupeter,  the 
Attorney  of  the  Royal  Treasury  Knol,  the  Bookseller  Pass- 
vogel,  the  Preacher-at-Early-Service  Flachs,  and  Herr 
Flitte  from  Alsace.  They  duly  and  properly  requested  of 
the  magistrates  the  charter  consigned  to  the  latter  by  the 
late  Kabel,  and  asked  for  the  opening  of  the  will.  The 
chief  executor  of  the  will  was  the  officiating  Burgomaster 
in  person,  the  under-executors  were  the  Municipal-Council- 
ors. Presently  the  charter  and  the  will  were  fetched  from 
the  Council-chamber  into  the  Burgomaster's  office,  they 
were  passed  around  to  all  the  Councilors  and  the  heirs, 
in  order  that  they  might  see  the  privy  seal  of  the  city  upon 
them,  and  the  registry  of  the  consigTiment  written  by  the 
town  clerk  upon  the  charter  was  read  aloud  to  the  seven 
heirs.  Thereby  it  was  made  known  to  them  that  the  charter 
had  really  been  consigned  to  the  magistrates  by  the  late 
departed  one  and  confided  to  them  scrinio  rei  publiccE,  like- 
"ttise  that  he  had  been  in  his  right  mind  on  the  day  of  the 
consignment.  The  seven  seals  which  he  himself  had  placed 
upon  it  were  found  to  be  intact.  Then  —  after  the  Town- 
Clerk  had  again  drawn  up  a  short  record  of  all  this  —  the 
will  was  opened  in  God's  name  and  read  aloud  by  the  offici- 
ating Burgomaster.    It  ran  as  follows : 

''  I,  Van  der  Kabel,  do  draw  up  my  will  on  this  seventh 
day  of  May  179 — ,  here  in  my  house  in  Haslau,  in  Dog 
Street,  without  a  great  ado  of  words,  although  I  have  been 
both  a  German  notary  and  a  Dutch  domine.    Notwithstand- 

VoL.  IV  — 3 


34  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

ing,  I  believe  that  I  am  still  sufficiently  familiar  with  the 
notary's  art  to  be  able  to  act  as  a  regular  testator  and 
bequeather  of  property. 

'  *  Testators  are  supposed  to  commence  by  setting  forth  the 
motives  which  have  caused  them  to  make  their  will.  These 
with  me,  as  with  most,  are  my  approaching  death,  and  the 
disposal  of  an  inheritance  which  is  desired  by  many.  To 
talk  about  the  funeral  and  such  matters  is  too  weak  and  silly. 
That  which  remains  of  me,  however,  may  the  eternal  sun 
above  us  make  use  of  for  one  of  his  verdant  springs,  not 
for  a  gloomy  winter ! 

"  The  charitable  bequests,  about  which  notaries  must 
always  inquire,  I  shall  attend  to  by  setting  aside  for  three 
thousand  of  the  city's  paupers  an  equal  number  of  florins 
so  that  in  the  years  to  come,  on  the  anniversary  of  my 
death,  if  the  annual  review  of  the  troops  does  not  happen 
to  take  place  on  the  common  that  day,  they  can  pitch  their 
camp  there  and  have  a  merry  feast  off  the  money,  and  after- 
ward clothe  themselves  w^ith  the  tent  linen.  To  all  the 
schoolmasters  of  our  Principality  also  I  bequeath  to  every 
man  one  august  d'or,  and  I  leave  my  pew  in  the  Court 
church  to  the  Jews  of  the  city.  My  will  being  divided  into 
clauses,  this  may  be  taken  as  the  first. 

"  Second  Clause 
It  is  the  general  custom  for  legacies  and  disinheritances 
to  be  counted  among  the  most  essential  parts  of  the  will. 
In  accordance  with  this  custom  Consistorial  Councillor 
Glanz,  Attorney  of  the  Royal  Treasury  Knol,  Court- Agent 
Peter  Neupeter,  Police-Inspector  Harprecht,  the  Preacher- 
at-Early-Service  Flachs,  the  Court-bookseller  Passvogel 
and  Herr  Flitte,  for  the  time  being  receive  nothing;  not 
so  much  because  no  TrebelUanica  is  due  them  as  the  most 
distant  relatives,  or  because  most  of  them  have  themselves 
enough  to  bequeath,  as  because  I  know  out  of  their  own 
mouths  that  they  love  my  insignificant  person  better  than 
my  great  wealth,  which  person  I  therefore  leave  them,  little 
as  can  be  got  out  of  it." 


THE  OPENING  OF  THE  WILL  35 

Seven  preternaturally  long  faces  at  this  point  started  up 
like  the  Seven-sleepers.  The  Consistorial  Councillor,  a 
man  still  young  but  celebrated  throughout  all  Germany  for 
his  oral  and  printed  sermons,  considered  himself  the  one 
most  insulted  by  such  taunts.  From  the  Alsatian  Flitte 
there  escaped  an  oath  accompanied  by  a  slight  smack  of  the 
tongue.  The  chin  of  Flachs,  the  Preacher-at-Early-Service, 
grew  downward  into  a  regular  beard. 

The  City  Councillors  could  hear  several  softly  ejaculated 
obituaries  referring  to  the  late  Kabel  under  the  name  of 
scamp,  fool,  infidel,  etc.  But  the  officiating  Burgomaster 
waved  his  hand,  the  Attorney  of  the  Royal  Treasury  and 
the  Bookseller  again  bent  all  the  elastic  steel  springs  of 
their  faces  as  if  setting  a  trap,  and  the  Burgomaster  con- 
tinued to  read,  although  with  enforced  seriousness. 

**  Third  Clause 

I  make  an  exception  of  the  present  house  in  Dog  Street 
which,  after  this  my  third  clause,  shall,  just  as  it  stands, 
devolve  upon  and  belong  to  that  one  of  my  seven  above- 
named  relatives,  who  first,  before  the  other  six  rivals,  can 
in  one  half  hour's  time  (to  be  reckoned  from  the  reading 
of  the  Clause)  shed  one  or  tw^o  tears  over  me,  his  departed 
uncle,  in  the  presence  of  an  estimable  magistrate  who  shall 
record  the  same.  If,  however,  all  eyes  remain  dry,  then  the 
house  likewise  shall  fall  to  the  exclusive  heir  whom  I  am 
about  to  name." 

Here  the  Burgomaster  closed  the  will,  remarked  that  the 
condition  was  certainly  unusual  but  not  illegal,  and  the 
court  must  adjudge  the  house  to  the  first  one  who  wept. 
With  which  he  placed  his  watch,  which  pointed  to  half-past 
eleven,  on  the  office-table,  and  sat  himself  quietly  down  in 
order  in  his  capacity  of  executor  to  observe,  together  with 
the  whole  court,  who  should  first  shed  the  desired  tear  over 
the  testator.  It  cannot  fairly  be  assumed  that,  as  long  as 
the  earth  has  stood,  a  more  woe-begone  and  muddled  con- 
gress ever  met  upon  it  than  this  one  composed  of  seven 


36  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

dry  provinces  assembled  together,  as  it  were,  in  order  to 
weep.  At  first  some  precious  minutes  were  spent  merely 
in  confused  wondering  and  in  smiling;  the  congress  had 
been  placed  too  suddenly  in  the  situation  of  the  dog  who, 
when  about  to  rush  angrily  at  his  enemy,  heard  the  latter 
call  out:  Beg!  —  and  who  suddenly  got  up  on  his  hind  legs 
and  begged,  showing  his  teeth.  From  cursing  they  had 
been  pulled  up  too  quickly  into  weeping. 

Every  one  realized  that  genuine  emotion  was  not  to  be 
thought  of;  downpours  do  not  come  quite  so  much  on  the 
gallop ;  such  sudden  baptism  of  the  eyes  was  out  of  the  ques- 
tion; but  in  twenty-six  minutes  something  might  happen. 

The  merchant  Neupeter  asked  if  it  were  not  an  accursed 
business  and  a  foolish  joke  on  the  part  of  a  sensible  man, 
and  he  refused  to  lend  himself  to  it ;  but  the  thought  that  a 
house  might  swim  into  his  purse  on  a  tear  caused  him  a 
peculiar  irritation  of  the  glands,  which  made  him  look  like 
a  sick  lark  to  whom  a  clyster  is  being  applied  with  an  oiled 
pinhead  —  the  house  being  the  head. 

The  Attorney  of  the  Eoyal  Treasury  Knol  screwed  up 
his  face  like  a  poor  workman,  whom  an  apprentice  is  shav- 
ing and  scraping  on  a  Saturday  evening  by  the  light  of  a 
shoemaker's  candle;  he  was  furiously  angry  at  the  misuse 
made  of  the  title  *  *  Will ' '  and  quite  near  to  shedding  tears 
of  rage. 

The  crafty  Bookseller  Passvogel  at  once  quietly  set  about 
the  matter  in  hand ;  he  hastily  went  over  in  his  mind  all  the 
touching  things  which  he  was  publishing  at  his  own  expense 
or  on  commission,  and  from  which  he  hoped  to  brew  some- 
thing; he  looked  the  while  like  a  dog  that  is  slowly  licking 
off  the  emetic  which  the  Parisian  veterinary,  Demet,  had 
smeared  on  his  nose ;  it  would  evidently  be  some  time  before 
the  desired  effect  would  take  place. 

Flitte  from  Alsace  danced  around  in  the  Burgomaster's 
office,  looked  laughingly  at  all  the  serious  faces  and  swore 
he  was  not  the  richest  among  them,  but  not  for  all  Stras- 
burg  and  Alsace  besides  was  he  capable  of  weeping  over 
such  a  joke. 


THE  OPENING  OF  THE  WILL    .  37 

At  last  the  Police-Inspector  looked  very  significantly  at 
Mm  and  declared:  In  case  Monsieur  hoped  by  means  of 
laughter  to  squeeze  the  desired  drops  out  of  the  well-known 
glands  and  out  of  the  Meibomian,  the  caruncle,  and  others, 
and  thus  thievishly  to  cover  himself  with  this  window-pane 
moisture,  he  wished  to  remind  him  that  he  could  gain  just 
as  little  by  it  as  if  he  should  blow  his  nose  and  try  to  profit 
by  that,  as  in  the  latter  case  it  was  well  known  that  more 
tears  flowed  from  the  eyes  through  the  ductus  nasalis  than 
were  shed  in  any  church-pew  during  a  funeral  sermon. 
But  the  Alsatian  assured  him  he  was  only  laughing  in  fun 
and  not  with  serious  intentions. 

The  Inspector  for  his  part  tried  to  drive  something  ap- 
propriate into  his  eyes  by  holding  them  wide  open  and 
staring  fixedly. 

The  Preacher-at-Early-Service  Flachs  looked  like  a  Jew 
beggar  riding  a  runaway  horse.  Meanwhile  his  heart, 
which  was  already  overcast  with  the  most  promising  sultry 
clouds  caused  by  domestic  and  church-troubles,  could  have 
immediately  drawn  up  the  necessary  water,  as  easily  as 
the  sun  before  bad  weather,  if  only  the  floating-house  navi- 
gating toward  him  had  not  always  come  between  as  a  much 
too  cheerful  spectacle,  and  acted  as  a  dam. 

The  Consistorial  Councillor  had  learned  to  know  his  own 
nature  from  New  Year's  and  funeral  sermons,  and  was 
positive  that  he  himself  would  be  the  first  to  be  moved  if 
only  he  started  to  make  a  moving  address  to  others.  When 
therefore  he  saw  himself  and  the  others  hanging  so  long 
on  the  drying-line,  he  stood  up  and  said  with  dignity: 
Every  one  who  had  read  his  printed  works  knew  for  a  cer- 
tainty that  he  carried  a  heart  in  his  breast,  which  needed 
to  repress  such  holy  tokens  as  tears  are  —  so  as  not  thereby 
to  deprive  any  fellowman  of  something — rather  than  labo- 
riously to  draw  them  to  the  surface  with  an  ulterior  motive. 
'  *  This  heart  has  already  shed  them,  but  in  secret,  for  Kabel 
was  my  friend,"  he  said,  and  looked  around. 

He  noticed  with  pleasure  that  all  were  sitting  there  as 
dry  as  wooden  corks;  at  this  special  moment  crocodiles, 


JL'^^.^  m  iJfO 


38  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

stags,  elephants,  witches,  ravens*  could  have  wept  more 
easily  than  the  heirs,  so  disturbed  and  enraged  were  they 
by  Glanz.  Flachs  was  the  only  one  who  had  a  secret 
inspiration.  He  hastily  summoned  to  his  mind  Kabel's 
charities  and  the  mean  clothes  and  gray  hair  of  the  women 
who  formed  his  congregation  at  the  early-service,  Lazarus 
with  his  dogs,  and  his  own  long  coflin,  and  also  the  behead- 
ing of  various  people,  Werther's  Sorrows,  a  small  battle- 
field, and  himself  —  how  pitifully  here  in  the  days  of  his 
youth  he  was  struggling  and  tormenting  himself  over  the 
clause  of  the  will  —  just  three  more  jerks  of  the  pump- 
handle  and  he  would  have  his  water  and  the  house. 

*'  0  Kabel,  my  Kabel !  "  continued  Glanz,  almost  weeping 
for  joy  at  the  prospect  of  the  approaching  tears  of  sorrow. 
"  When  once  beside  your  loving  heart  covered  with  earth 
my  heart  too  shall  mol  —  " 

^'  I  believe,  honored  gentlemen,"  said  Flachs  mourn- 
fully, arising  and  looking  around,  his  eyes  brimming  over, 
*'  I  am  weeping."  After  which  he  sat  down  again  and  let 
them  flow  more  cheerfully;  he  had  feathered  his  nest. 
Under  the  eyes  'of  the  other  heirs  he  had  snatched  away 
the  prize-house  from  Glanz,  who  now  extremely  regretted 
his  exertions,  since  he  had  quite  uselessly  talked  away  half 
of  his  appetite.  The  emotion  of  Flachs  was  placed  on 
record  and  the  house  in  Dog  Street  was  adjudged  to  him 
for  good  and  all.  The  Burgomaster  was  heartily  glad  to 
see  the  poor  devil  get  it.  It  was  the  first  time  in  the  prin- 
cipality of  Haslau  that  the  tears  of  a  school-master  and 
teacher-of-the-church  had  been  metamorphosed,  not  like 
those  of  the  Heliades  into  light  amber,  which  incased  an 
insect,  but  like  those  of  the  goddess  Freya,  into  gold.  Glanz 
congratulated  Flachs,  and  gayly  drew  his  attention  to  the 
fact  that  perhaps  he,  Glanz,  had  helped  to  move  him.  The 
rest  drew  aside,  by  their  separation  accentuating  their  posi- 
tion on  the  dry  road  from  that  of  Flachs  on  the  wet;  all, 
however,  remained  intent  upon  the  rest  of  the  will. 

Then  the  reading  of  it  was  continued. 


*  Thfi  German  texts  read :  Reben,  vines.     But  the  conjecture  Raben  as  the 
correct  reading  may  be  permitted. — Ed. 


WILHELM  VON  HUMBOLDT 


SCHILLER  AND  THE  PROCESS  OF  HIS  INTEL- 
LECTUAL   DEVELOPMENT 

From  the  Introduction  to  the  Correspondence  of  Schiller  and 
W.  von  Humboldt   (1830) 

TRANSLATED  BY   FRANCES  H.   KING 

[CHILLER'S  poetic  genius  showed  itself  in  his 
very  first  productions.  In  spite  of  all  their 
defects  in  form,  in  spite  of  many  things 
which  to  the  mature  artist  seemed  absolutely 
crude,  The  Robbers  and  Fiesko  gave  evi- 
dence of  remarkable  inherent  power.  His  genius  later 
betrayed  itself  in  the  longing  for  poetry,  as  for  the  native 
atmosphere  of  his  spirit,  which  longing  constantly  breaks 
out  in  his  varied  philosophical  and  historical  labors  and  is 
often  hinted  at  in  his  letters  to  me.  It  finally  revealed 
itself  in  virile  power  and  refined  purity  in  those  dramas 
which  will  long  remain  the  pride  and  the  renown  of  the 
German  stage. 

This  poetic  genius,  however,  is  most  closely  wedded,  in 
all  its  height  and  depth,  to  thought;  it  manifests  itself, 
in  fact,  in  an  intellectuality  which  by  analysis  would  sepa- 
rate everything  into  its  parts,  and  then  by  combination 
would  unite  all  in  one  complete  whole.  In  this  lies  Schil- 
ler's peculiar  individuality.  He  demanded  of  poetry  more 
profundity  of  thought  and  forced  it  to  submit  to  a  more 
rigid  intellectual  unity  than  it  had  ever  had  before.  This  he 
did  in  a  two-fold  manner — by  binding  it  into  a  more 
strictly  artistic  form,  and  by  treating  every  poem  in  such 
a  way  that  its  subject-matter  readily  broadened  its  indi- 
viduality until  it  expressed  a  complete  idea. 

It  is  upon  these  peculiarities  that  the  excellence  which 
characterizes  Schiller  as  a  writer  rests.  It  is  because  of 
them  that,  in  order  to  bring  out  the  greatest  and  best  of 

1391 


40  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

which  he  was  capable,  he  needed  a  certain  amount  of  time 
before  his  completely  developed  individuality,  to  which  his 
poetic  genius  was  indissolubly  united,  could  reach  that 
point  of  clearness  and  definiteness  of  expression  which  he 
demanded  of  himself.     *     *     * 

On  the  other  hand,  it  would  probably  be  agreeable  to  the 
reader  of  this  correspondence  if  I  should  attempt  briefly 
to  show  how  my  opinion  of  Schiller's  individuality  was 
formed  by  intercourse  with  him,  by  reminiscences  of  his 
conversation,  by  the  comparison  of  his  productions  in  their 
successive  sequence,  and  by  a  study  of  the  development 
of  his  intellect. 

A^Hiat  must  necessarily  have  impressed  every  student  of 
Schiller  as  most  characteristic  was  the  fact  that  thinking 
was  the  very  substance  of  his  life,  in  a  higher  and  more 
significant  sense  than  perhaps  has  ever  been  the  case  with 
any  other  person.  His  intellect  was  alive  with  spontaneous 
and  almost  tireless  activity,  which  ceased  only  when  the 
attacks  of  his  physical  infirmity  became  overpowering. 
Such  activity  seemed  to  him  a  recreation  rather  than  an 
effort,  and  was  manifested  most  conspicuously  in  conversa- 
tion, for  which  Schiller  appeared  to  have  a  natural  aptitude. 

He  never  sought  for  deep  subjects  of  conversation,  but 
seemed  rather  to  leave  the  introduction  of  a  subject  to 
chance;  but  from  each  topic  he  led  the  discourse  up  to  a 
general  point  of  view,  and  after  a  short  dialogue  one  found 
oneself  in  the  very  midst  of  a  mentally  stimulating  dis- 
cussion. He  always  treated  the  central  idea  as  an  end  to 
be  attained  in  common ;  he  always  seemed  to  need  the  help 
of  the  person  with  whom  he  was  conversing,  for,  although 
the  latter  always  felt  that  the  idea  was  supplied  by  Schiller 
alone,  Schiller  never  allowed  him  to  remain  inactive. 

This  was  the  chief  difference  between  Schiller's  and 
Herder's  mode  of  conversing.  Never,  perhaps,  has  there 
been  a  man  who  talked  with  greater  charm  than  Herder, 
if  one  happened  to  catch  him  in  an  agreeable  mood  —  not 
a  difficult  matter  when  any  kind  of  note  was  struck  with 


Permission  Berlin  Photo  Co.,   \eii'  York 

WILHELM  VON  HUMBOLDT 


Franz  Kruger 


W.  VON  HUMBOLDT :     SCHILLER  41 

whicli  he  was  in  harmony.  All  the  extraordinary  qualities 
of  this  justly  admired  man  seemed  to  gain  double  power  in 
conversation,  for  which  they  were  so  peculiarly  adapted. 
The  thought  blossomed  forth  in  expression  with  a  grace 
and  dignity  which  appeared  to  proceed  from  the  subject 
alone,  although  really  belonging  only  to  the  individual. 
Thus  speech  flowed  on  uninterruptedly  with  a  limpidness 
which  still  left  something  remaining  for  one's  own  imagina- 
tion, and  yet  with  a  chiaroscuro  which  did  not  prevent 
one  from  definitely  grasping  the  thought.  As  soon  as  one 
subject  was  exhausted  a  new  one  was  taken  up.  Nothing 
was  gained  by  making  objections  which  would  only  have 
served  as  a  hindrance.  One  had  listened,  one  could  even 
talk  oneself,  but  one  felt  the  lack  of  an  interchange  of 
thought. 

Schiller's  speech  was  not  really  beautiful,  but  his  mind 
constantly  strove,  with  acumen  and  precision,  to  make  new 
intellectual  conquests;  he  held  this  effort  under  control, 
however,  and  soared  above  his  subject  in  perfect  liberty. 
Hence,  with  a  light  and  delicate  touch  he  utilized  any  side- 
issue  which  presented  itself,  and  this  was  the  reason  why 
his  conversation  was  peculiarly  rich  in  words  that  are  so 
evidently  the  inspiration  of  the  moment;  yet,  in  spite  of 
such  seeming  freedom  in  the  treatment  of  the  subject,  the 
final  end  was  not  lost  sight  of.  Schiller  always  held  with 
firmness  the  thread  which  was  bound  to  lead  thither,  and, 
if  the  conversation  was  not  interrupted  by  any  mishap,  he 
was  not  prone  to  bring  it  to  a  close  until  he  had  reached  the 
goal. 

And  as  Schiller  in  his  conversation  always  aimed  to  add 
new  ground  to  the  domain  of  thought,  so,  in  general,  it  may 
be  said  that  his  intellectual  activity  was  always  character- 
ized by  an  intense  spontaneity.  His  letters  demonstrate 
these  traits  very  perceptibly,  and  he  knew  absolutely  no 
other  method  of  working. 

He  gave  himself  up  to  mere  reading  late  in  the  evening 
only,  and  during  his  frequently  sleepless  nights.  His  days 
were  occupied  with  various  labors  or  with  specific  prepara- 


42  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

tory  studies  in  connection  with  them,  his  intellect  being 
thus  kept  at  high  tension  by  work  and  research. 

Mere  studjdng  undertaken  with  no  immediate  end  in  view 
save  that  of  acquiring  knowledge,  and  which  has  such  a 
fascination  for  those  who  are  familiar  with  it  that  they 
must  be  constantly  on  their  guard  lest  it  cause  them  to  neg- 
lect other  more  definite  duties  —  such  studying,  I  say,  he 
knew  nothing  about  from  experience,  nor  did  he  esteem  it 
at  its  proper  value.  Knowledge  seemed  to  him  too 
material,  and  the  forces  of  the  intellect  too  noble,  for  him 
to  see  in  this  material  anj^thing  more  than  mere  stuff  to  be 
worked  up.  It  was  only  because  he  placed  more  value  upon 
the  higher  activity  of  the  intellect,  which  creates  independ- 
ently out  of  its  own  depths,  that  he  had  so  little  sympathy 
with  its  efforts  of  a  lower  order.  It  is  indeed  remarkable 
from  what  a  small  stock  of  material  and  how,  in  spite  of 
wanting  the  means  by  which  such  material  is  procured  by 
others,  Schiller  obtained  his  comprehensive  theory  of  life 
(Weltanschauung),  which,  when  once  grasped,  fairly 
startles  us  by  the  intuitive  truthfulness  of  genius;  for  one 
can  give  no  other  name  to  that  which  originates  without 
outside  aid. 

Even  in  Germany  he  had  traveled  only  in  certain  dis- 
tricts, while  Switzerland,  of  which  his  William  Tell  con- 
tains such  vivid  descriptions,  he  had  never  seen.  Any  one 
who  has  ever  stood  by  the  Falls  of  the  Rhine  will  involun- 
tarily recall,  at  the  sight,  the  beautiful  strophe  in  The  Diver 
in  which  this  confusing  tumult  of  waters,  that  so  captivates 
the  eye,  is  depicted;  and  yet  no  personal  view  of  these 
rapids  had  served  as  the  basis  for  Schiller's  description. 

But  whatever  Schiller  did  acquire  from  his  own  experi- 
ence he  grasped  with  a  clearness  which  also  brought  dis- 
tinctly before  him  what  he  learned  from  the  description  of 
others.  Besides,  he  never  neglected  to  prepare  himself  for 
every  subject  by  exhaustive  reading.  Anything  that  might 
prove  to  be  of  use,  even  if  discovered  accidentally,  fixed 
itself  firmly  in  his  memory;  and  his  tirelessly- w^orking 
imagination,   which,   with   constant   liveliness,   elaborated 


W.  VON  HUMBOLDT:     SCHILLER  43 

now  this  now  that  part  of  the  material  collected  from  every 
source,  filled  out  the  deficiencies  of  such  second-hand 
information. 

In  a  manner  quite  similar  he  made  the  spirit  of  Greek 
poetry  his  own,  although  his  knowledge  of  it  was  gained 
exclusively  from  translations.  In  this  connection  he  spared 
himself  no  pains.  He  preferred  translations  which  dis- 
claimed any  particular  merit  in  themselves,  and  his  high- 
est consideration  was  for  the  literal  classical  paraphrases. 
*  *  *  The  Cranes  of  Ihycus  and  the  Festival  of  Victory 
wear  the  colors  of  antiquity  with  all  the  purity  and  fidelity 
which  could  be  expected  from  a  modern  poet,  and  they  wear 
them  in  the  most  beautiful  and  most  spirited  manner.  The 
poet,  in  these  works,  has  quite  absorbed  the  spirit  of  the 
ancient  world ;  he  moves  about  in  it  with  freedom,  and  thus 
creates  a  new  form  of  poetry  which,  in  all  its  parts,  breathes 
only  such  a  spirit.  The  two  poems,  however,  are  in  strik- 
ing contrast  with  each  other.  The  Cranes  of  Ihycus  per- 
mitted a  thoroughly  epic  development ;  what  made  the  sub- 
ject of  intrinsic  value  to  the  poet  was  the  idea  which  sprung 
from  it  of  the  power  of  artistic  representation  upon  the 
human  soul.  This  power  of  poetry,  of  an  invisible  force 
created  purely  by  the  intellect  and  vanishing  away  when 
brought  into  contact  with  reality,  belonged  essentially  to 
the  sphere  of  ideas  which  occupied  Schiller  so  intensely. 

As  many  as  eight  years  before  the  time  when  this  sub- 
ject assumed  the  ballad  form  within  his  mind  it  had  floated 
before  his  vision,  as  is  evident  in  the  lines  which  are  taken 
from  his  poem  The  Artists  — 

"Awed  by  the  Furies'  chorus  dread 
Murder  draws  down  upon  its  head 
The  doom  of  death  from  their  wild  song." 

This  idea,  moreover,  permitted  an  exposition  in  complete 
harmony  with  the  spirit  of  antiquity ;  the  latter  had  all  the 
requisites  for  bringing  it  into  bold  relief  in  all  its  purity 
and  strength.  Consequently,  every  particular  in  the  whole 
narrative  is  borrowed  immediately  from  the  ancient  world, 
especially  the  appearance  and  the  song  of  Eumenides.    The 


44  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

chorus  as  employed  by  ^schylus  is  so  artistically  inter- 
woven with  the  modern  poetic  form,  both  in  the  matter  of 
rh}Tne  and  the  length  of  the  metre,  that  no  portion  of  its 
quiet  grandeur  is  lost. 

The  Festival  of  Victory  is  of  a  lyric,  of  a  contemplative 
nature.  In  this  work  the  poet  was  able  —  indeed  was  com- 
pelled—  to  lend  from  his  own  store  an  element  which  did 
not  lie  within  the  sphere  of  ideas  and  the  sentiments  of 
antiquity;  but  everything  else  follows  the  spirit  of  the 
Homeric  poem  with  as  great  purity  as  it  does  in  the  Cranes 
of  Ihycus.  The  poem  as  a  whole  is  clearly  stamped  with 
a  higher,  more  distinct,  spirituality  than  is  usual  with  the 
ancient  singers;  and  it  is  in  this  particular  that  it  manifests 
its  most  conspicuous  beauties. 

The  earlier  poems  of  Schiller  are  also  rich  in  particular 
traits  borrowed  from  the  poems  of  the  ancients,  and  into 
them  he  has  often  introduced  a  higher  significance  than  is 
found  in  the  original.  Let  me  refer  in  this  connection  to 
his  description  of  death  from  The  Artists  —  **  The  gentle 
bow  of  necessity  ' '  —  which  so  beautifully  recalls  the  gentle 
darts  of  Homer,  where,  however,  the  transfer  of  the  adjec- 
tive from  darts  to  bow  gives  to  the  thought  a  more  tender 
and  a  deeper  significance. 

Confidence  in  the  intellectual  power  of  man  heightened 
to  poetic  form  is  expressed  in  the  distichs  entitled 
Columbus,  which  are  among  the  most  peculiar  poetic  pro- 
ductions that  Schiller  has  given  us.  Belief  in  the  invisible 
force  inherent  in  man,  in  the  opinion,  which  is  sublime  and 
deeply  true,  that  there  must  be  an  inward  mystic  harmony 
between  it  and  the  force  which  orders  and  governs  the 
entire  universe  (for  all  truth  can  only  be  a  reflection  of  the 
eternal  primal  Truth),  was  a  characteristic  feature  of 
Schiller's  way  of  thinking.  It  harmonized  also  with  the 
persistence  with  which  he  followed  up  every  intellectual 
task  until  it  was  satisfactorily  completed.  We  see  the  same 
thought  expressed  in  the  same  kind  of  metaphor  in  the 
bold  but  beautiful  expression  which  occurs  in  the  letters 
from  Raphael  to  Julius  in  the  magazine.  The  Thalia  — 


W.  VON  HUMBOLDT:     SCHILLER  45 

"  When  Columbus  made  the  risky  wager  with  an  untrav- 
eled  sea. "    *    *    * 

Art  and  poetry  were  directly  joined  to  what  was  most 
noble  in  man;  they  were  represented  to  be  the  medium  by 
means  of  wliich  he  first  awakens  to  the  consciousness  of 
that  nature,  reaching  out  beyond  the  finite,  which  dwells 
within  him.  Both  of  them  were  thus  placed  upon  the  height 
from  which  they  really  originate.  To  safeguard  them  upon 
this  height,  to  save  them  from  being  desecrated  by  every 
paltry  and  belittling  view,  to  rescue  them  from  every  senti- 
ment which  did  not  spring  from  their  purity,  was  really 
Schiller's  aim,  and  appeared  to  him  as  his  true  life-mission 
determined  for  him  by  the  original  tendency  of  his  nature. 

His  first  and  most  urgent  demands  are,  therefore, 
addressed  to  the  poet  himself,  from  whom  he  requires  not 
merely  genius  and  talent  isolated,  as  it  were,  in  their 
activity,  but  a  mood  which  takes  possession  of  the  entire 
soul  and  is  in  harmony  with  the  sublimity  of  his  vocation ; 
it  must  be  not  a  mere  momentary  exaltation,  but  an  integral 
part  of  character.  ' '  Before  he  undertakes  to  influence  the 
best  among  his  contemporaries  he  should  make  it  his  first 
and  most  important  business  to  elevate  his  own  self  to  the 
purest  and  noblest  ideal  of  humanity. "  *  *  *  To  no  one  does 
Schiller  apply  this  demand  more  rigorously  than  to  himself. 

Of  him  it  can  truthfully  be  said  that  matters  which 
bordered  upon  the  common  or  even  upon  the  ordinary, 
never  had  the  slightest  hold  upon  him ;  that  he  transferred 
completely  the  high  and  noble  views  which  filled  his 
thoughts  to  his  mode  of  feeling  and  his  life ;  and  that  in  his 
compositions  he  was  ever,  with  uniform  force,  inspired  with 
a  striving  for  the  ideal.  This  was  true  even  of  his  minor 
productions. 

To  assign  to  poetry,  among  human  endeavors,  the  lofty 
and  serious  place  of  which  I  have  spoken  above,  to  defend 
it  from  the  petty  point  of  view  of  those  who,  mistaking  its 
dignity,  and  the  pedantic  attitude  of  those  who,  mistaking 
its  peculiar  character,  regard  it  only  as  a  trifling  adorn- 
ment and  embellishment  of  life  or  else  ask  an  immediate 


46  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

moral  effect  and  teaching  from  it  —  this,  as  one  cannot 
repeat  too  often,  is  deeply  rooted  in  the  German  habit  of 
thought  and  feeling.  Schiller  in  his  poetry  gave  utterance 
—  in  his  own  individual  manner,  however  —  to  whatever 
his  German  nature  had  implanted  in  him,  to  the  harmony 
which  rang  out  to  him  from  the  depths  of  the  language,  the 
mysterious  effect  of  which  he  so  cleverly  perceived  and 
knew  how  to  use  so  masterfully.    *    *    * 

The  deeper  and  truer  trend  of  the  German  resides  in  Ms 
highly  developed  sensibility  which  keeps  him  closer  to  the 
truths  of  nature,  in  his  inclination  to  live  in  the  world  of 
ideas  and  of  emotions  dependent  upon  them,  and,  in  fact, 
in  everything  which  is  connected  therewith.    *    *    * 

A  favorite  idea  which  often  engaged  Schiller's  attention 
was  the  need  of  educating  the  crude  natural  man  —  as  he 
understood  him  —  through  art,  before  he  could  be  left  to 
attain  culture  through  reason.  Schiller  has  enlarged  upon 
this  theme  on  many  occasions,  both  in  prose  and  verse.  His 
imagination  dwelt  by  preference  upon  the  beginnings  of 
civilization  in  general,  upon  the  transition  from  the  no- 
madic life  to  the  agricultural,  upon  the  covenant  established 
in  naive  faith  with  pious  Mother  Earth,  as  he  so  beauti- 
fully expresses  it. 

Whatever  mythology  offered  here  as  kindred  material, 
he  grasped  with  eagerness  and  firmness.  Faithfully  follow- 
ing the  traces  of  fable,  he  made  of  Demeter,  the  chief  per- 
sonage in  the  group  of  agricultural  deities,  a  figure  as 
wonderful  as  it  was  appealing,  by  uniting  in  her  breast 
human  feelings  with  divine.  It  was  long  a  cherished  plan 
with  Schiller  to  treat  in  epic  form  the  earliest  Attic  civili- 
zation resulting  from  foreign  immigration.  The  Eleu- 
sinian  Festival,  however,  replaced  this  plan,  which  was 
never  executed.    *    *    * 

The  merely  emotional,  the  ferv^id,  the  simply  descriptive, 
in  fact  every  variety  of  poetry  derived  directly  from  con- 
templation and  feeling,  are  found  in  Schiller  in  countless 
single  passages  and  in  whole  poems.  *  *  *  But  the  most 
remarkable  evidence  of  the  consummate  genius  of  the  poet 


W.  VON  HUMBOLDT:     SCIIILLEI?  47 

is  seen  in  The  Song  of  the  Bell,  whicli,  in  changing  metre, 
in  descriptions  full  of  vivacity  where  a  few  touches 
represent  a  whole  picture,  runs  through  the  varied  experi- 
ences in  the  life  of  man  and  of  society ;  for  it  expresses  the 
feelings  which  arise  in  each  of  them,  and  ever  adapts  the 
whole,  s}Tnbolically,  to  the  tones  of  the  bell,  the  casting  and 
completing  of  which  the  poem  accompanies  throughout  in 
all  its  various  stages.  I  know  of  no  poem,  in  any  language, 
which  shows  so  wide  a  poetic  world  in  so  small  a  compass, 
that  so  runs  through  the  scale  of  all  that  is  deepest  in 
human  feelings,  and,  in  the  guise  of  a  lyric,  depicts  life  in 
its  important  events  and  epochs  as  if  in  an  epic  poem  con- 
fined within  natural  limits.  But  the  poetic  clearness  is 
enhanced  by  the  fact  that  a  subject  whicli  is  portrayed  as 
actually  existing,  corresponds  with  the  shadowy  visions  of 
the  imagination;  and  the  two  series  thus  formed  run 
parallel  with  each  other  to  the  same  end.    *    *    * 

Schiller  was  snatched  from  the  world  in  the  full  maturity 
of  his  intellectual  power,  though  he  would  undoubtedly  have 
been  able  to  perform  an  endless  amount  of  additional  work. 
His  scope  was  so  unlimited  that  he  would  never  have  been 
able  to  find  a  goal,  and  the  constantly  increasing  activity 
of  his  mind  would  never  have  allowed  him  time  for  stop- 
ping. For  long  years  ahead  he  would  have  been  able  to 
enjoy  the  happiness,  the  rapture,  yes,  the  bliss  of  his  occu- 
pation as  a  poet,  as  he  so  inimitably  describes  it  in  one  of 
the  letters  in  this  collection,  written  about  a  plan  for  an 
idyl.  His  life  ended  indeed  before  the  customary  limit  had 
been  reached,  yet,  while  it  lasted,  he  worked  exclusively  and 
uninterruptedly  in  the  realm  of  ideas  and  fancy. 

Of  no  one  else,  perhaps,  can  it  be  said  so  truthfully  that 
' '  he  had  thrown  away  the  fear  of  that  which  was  earthly 
and  had  escaped  out  of  the  narrow  gloomy  life  into  the 
realm  of  the  ideal."  And  it  may  be  observed,  in  closing, 
that  he  had  lived  surrounded  only  by  the  most  exalted  ideas 
and  the  most  brilliant  visions  which  it  is  possible  for  a 
mortal  to  appropriate  and  to  create.  One  who  thus  departs 
from  earth  cannot  be  regarded  as  otherwise  than  happy. 


THE  EARLY  ROMANTIC  SCHOOL 

By  James  Taft  Hatfield,  Ph.D. 

Professor  of  the  German  Language  and  Literature,  Northwestern  Univeraity 

[HE  latter  half  of  the  eighteenth  century  has 
been  styled  the  Age  of  Enlightenment,  a  con- 
venient name  for  a  period  in  which  there 
was  a  noticeable  attempt  to  face  the  obvious, 
external  facts  of  life  in  a  clear-eyed  and 
courageous  way.  The  centralizing  of  political  power  in 
the  hands  of  Louis  XIV.  of  France  and  his  successors  had 
been  accompanied  by  a  ''  standardizing  "  of  human  affairs 
which  favored  practical  efficiency  and  the  easier  running  of 
the  social  machine,  but  which  was  far  from  helpful  to  the 
self-expression  of  distinctly-marked  individuals. 

The  French  became  sovereign  arbiters  of  taste  and  form, 
but  their  canons  of  art  were  far  from  nature  and  the 
free  impulses  of  mankind.  The  particular  development  of 
this  spirit  of  clarity  in  Berlin,  the  centre  of  German  influ- 
ence, lay  in  the  tendency  to  challenge  all  historic  continuity, 
and  to  seek  uniformity  based  upon  practical  needs. 

Rousseau's  revolutionary  protests  against  inequality  and 
artificiality  —  particularly  his  startling  treatise  On  the 
Origin  and  Foundations  of  Inequality  among  Men  (1754) — 
and  his  fervent  preaching  of  the  everlasting  superiority  of 
the  heart  to  the  head,  constitute  the  most  important  factor 
in  a  great  revolt  against  regulated  social  institutions,  which 
led,  at  length,  to  the  ''  Storm  and  Stress  "  movement  in 
Germany,  that  boisterous  forerunner  of  Romanticism,  yet 
so  unlike  it  that  even  Schlegel  compared  its  most  typical 
representatives  to  the  biblical  herd  of  swine  which  stam- 
peded—  into  oblivion.  Herder,  proclaiming  the  vital  con- 
nection between  the  soul  of  a  whole  nation  and  its  litera- 
ture, and  preaching  a  religion  of  the  feelings  rather  than 

[48] 


THE  EARLY  EOMANTIC  SCHOOL  49 

a  gospel  of  ' '  enlightenment ;  ' '  young  Goethe,  by  his  daring 
and  untrammeled  Shakespearian  play,  Goetz  von  Berlichin- 
gen,  and  by  his  open  defiance,  announced  in  Werther,  of 
the  authority  of  all  artistic  rules  and  standards ;  and  Biir- 
ger,  asserting  the  right  of  the  common  man  to  be  the  only 
arbiter  of  literary  values,  were,  each  in  his  own  way,  upset- 
ting the  control  of  an  artificial  * '  classicism. ' '  Immanuel 
Kant,  whose  deep  and  dynamic  thinking  led  to  a  revolution 
comparable  to  a  cosmic  upheaval  in  the  geological  world, 
compelled  his  generation  to  discover  a  vast  new  moral  sys- 
tem utterly  disconcerting  to  the  shallow  complacency  of 
those  who  had  no  sense  of  higher  values  than  ''  practical 
efficiency. ' ' 

When,  in  1794,  Goethe  and  Schiller,  now  matured  and 
fully  seasoned  by  a  deep-going  classical  and  philosophical 
discipline,  joined  their  splendid  forces  and  devoted  their 
highest  powers  to  the  building  up  of  a  comprehensive 
esthetic  philosophy,  the  era  was  fully  come  for  new  con- 
structive efforts  on  German  soil.  Incalculably  potent  was 
the  ferment  liberated  by  Goethe's  Wilhelm  Meister  (1795- 
1796) — its  attacking  the  problem  of  life  from  the  emo- 
tional and  esthetic  side ;  its  defense  of  the  ' '  call ' '  of  the 
individual  as  outweighing  the  whole  social  code;  its  asser- 
tion that  genius  outranks  general  laws,  and  imagination 
every-day  rules ;  its  abundance  of  ' '  poetic  ' '  figures  taking 
their  part  in  the  romance. 

The  birth  of  the  Romantic  School  can  be  pretty  definitely 
set  at  about  1796;  its  cradle  was  in  the  quaint  university 
town  of  Jena,  at  that  time  the  home  of  Schiller  and  his 
literary-esthetic  enterprises,  and  only  a  few  miles  away 
from  Goethe  in  Weimar.  Five  names  embody  about  all 
that  was  most  significant  in  the  earlier  movement :  Fichte, 
flie  brothers  Friedrich  and  Wilhelm  Schlegel,  Tieck,  and 
Novalis. 

The  discussion  of  Fichte  belonging  to  another  division 
of  this  work,  it  is  enough  to  recall  here  that  he  was  already 
professor  of  philosophy  at  Jena  when  the  Schlegel  brothers 
Vol.  IV  — 4 


50  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

made  their  home  there  in  1796,  and  that  it  was  while  there 
that  he  published  his  Doctrine  of  Science,  the  charter  of 
independence  of  the  Romantic  School,  announcing  the  an- 
nihilation of  physical  values,  proclaiming  the  soul  as  above 
things  perceived,  the  inner  spirit  as  that  alembic  in  which 
all  objects  are  produced.  With  almost  insolent  freshness 
Fichte  asserted  a  re-valuation  of  all  values:  what  had 
been  *'  enlightenment  "  was  now  to  be  called  shallowness; 
**  ancient  crudities  "  were  to  be  reverenced  as  deeper  per- 
ceptions of  truth ;  ' '  fine  literature  ' '  was  to  be  accounted  a 
frivolous  thing.  Fichte  made  a  stirring  appeal  to  young 
men,  especially,  as  being  alone  able  to  perceive  the  meaning 
of  science  and  poetry. 

To  take  part  in  the  contagion  of  these  ideas,  there  settled 
in  Jena  in  1796  the  two  phenomenal  Schlegel  brothers.  It 
is  not  easy  or  necessary  to  separate,  at  this  period,  the 
activities  of  their  agile  minds.  From  their  early  days,  as 
sons  in  a  most  respectable  Lutheran  parsonage  in  North 
Germany,  both  had  shown  enormous  hunger  for  cultural 
information,  both  had  been  voracious  in  exploiting  the 
great  libraries  within  their  reach.  It  is  generally  asserted 
that  they  were  lacking  in  essential  virility  and  stamina; 
as  to  the  brilliancy  of  their  acquisitions,  their  fineness  of 
appreciation,  and  their  wit,  there  can  be  no  question  what- 
ever. Madame  de  Stael  called  them  * '  the  fathers  of  modern 
criticism,"  a  title  which  has  not  been  challenged  by  the 
best  authorities  of  our  time. 

Friedrich  von  Schlegel  (1772-1829),  the  younger  of  the 
two,  is  counted  to  be  the  keener  and  more  original  mind. 
He  had  a  restless  and  unsettled  youth,  mostly  spent  in 
studies;  after  various  disappointments,  he  determined  to 
make  classical  antiquity  his  life-work ;  while  mastering  the 
body  of  ancient  literature,  he  was  assimilating,  with  much 
the  same  sort  of  eagerness,  the  philosophical  systems  of 
Kant  and  Fichte.  His  first  notable  publication  was  an 
esthetic-philosophic  essay,  in  the  ample  style  of  Schiller's 
later  discourses.  Concerning  the  Study  of  Greek  Poetry. 


THE  EARLY  ROMANTIC  SCHOOL  51 

He  found  in  the  Greeks  of  the  age  of  Sophocles  the  ideal  of 
a  fully  developed  humanity,  and  exhibited  throughout  the 
discussion  a  remarkable  mastery  of  the  whole  field  of 
classical  literature.  Just  at  this  time  he  removed  to  Jena 
to  join  his  older  brother,  Wilhelm,  who  was  connected  with 
Schiller's  monthly  The  Hours  and  his  annual  Almanac  of 
the  Muses.  By  a  strange  condition  of  things  Friedrich 
was  actively  engaged  at  the  moment  in  writing  polemic 
reviews  for  the  organs  of  Reichardt,  one  of  Schiller's 
most  annoying  rivals  in  literary  journalism;  these  re- 
views became  at  once  noticeable  for  their  depth  and 
vigorous  originality,  particularly  that  one  which  gave 
a  new  and  vital  characterization  of  Lessing.  In  1797 
he  moved  to  Berlin,  where  he  gathered  a  group  about 
him,  including  Tieck,  and  in  this  way  established  the 
external  and  visible  body  of  the  Romantic  School,  which 
the  brilliant  intellectual  atmosphere  of  the  Berlin  salons, 
with  their  wealth  of  gifted  and  cultured  women,  did  much 
to  promote.  In  1799  both  he  and  Tieck  joined  the  Romantic 
circle  at  Jena. 

In  Berlin  he  published  in  1798  the  first  volume  of  the 
AthencBum,  that  journal  which  in  a  unique  way  represents 
the  pure  Romantic  ideal  at  its  actual  fountain-head.  It 
survived  for  three  years,  the  last  volume  appearing  in 
1800.  Its  aim  was  to  *'  collect  all  rays  of  human  culture 
into  one  focus, ' '  and,  more  particularly,  to  confute  the  claim 
of  the  party  of  "  enlightenment  "  that  the  earlier  ages  of 
human  development  were  poor  and  unworthy  of  respect  on 
the  part  of  the  closing  eighteenth  century.  A  very  large 
part  of  the  journal  was  written  by  the  two  brothers.  Fried- 
rich  furnishing  the  most  aggressive  contributions,  more 
notably  being  responsible  for  the  epigrammatic  Fragments, 
which  became,  in  their  detached  brevity  and  irresponsi- 
bility, a  very  favorite  model  for  the  form  of  Romantic  doc- 
trine. * '  I  can  talk  daggers, ' '  he  had  said  when  younger, 
and  he  wrote  the  greater  part  of  these,  though  some  were 
contributed  by  Wilhelm  Schlegel,  by  his  admirable  wife 


52  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

Caroline,  by  Schleiermacher,  and  Novalis.  The  root  of  this 
form  lies  in  French  thinking  and  expression  —  especially 
the  short  deliverances  of  Chamfort,  the  epigrammatist  of 
the  French  Revolution.  These  Orphic-apocalyptic  sen- 
tences are  a  sort  of  foundation  for  a  new  Romantic  bible. 
They  are  absolutely  disconnected,  they  show  a  mixture  and 
interpenetration  of  different  spheres  of  thought  and  obser- 
vation, with  an  unexpected  deference  to  the  appraisals  of 
classic  antiquity.  Their  range  is  unlimited:  philosophy 
and  psycholog}'',  mathematics  and  esthetics,  philosophy  and 
natural  science,  sociology  and  society,  literature  and  the 
theatre  are  all  largely  represented  in  their  scope. 

Friedrich  Schlegel's  epigrammatic  wit  is  the  direct  pre- 
cursor of  Heine's  clever  conceits  in  prose:  one  is  instantly 
reminded  of  him  by  such  Athenceum-tragments  as  "  Kant, 
the  Copernicus  of  Philosophy;  "  *'  Plato's  philosophy  is  a 
worthy  preface  to  the  religion  of  the  future ;  "  ' '  So-called 
*  happy  marriages  '  are  related  to  love,  as  a  correct  poem 
to  an  improvised  song;  "  ''In  genuine  prose  all  words 
should  be  printed  in  italics;  "  '*  Catholicism  is  na'ive  Chris- 
tianity; Protestantism  is  sentimental."  The  sheer  whim- 
sicality of  phrase  seems  to  be  at  times  its  own  excuse  for 
being,  as  in  an  explanation  of  certain  elegiac  poems  as 
*'  the  sensation  of  misery  in  the  contemplation  of  the  silli- 
ness of  the  relations  of  banality  to  craziness;  "  but  there 
are  many  sentences  which  go  deep  below  the  surface  —  none 
better  remembered,  perhaps,  than  the  dictum, ' '  The  French 
Revolution,  Fichte's  Doctrine  of  Science,  and  Goethe's 
Wilhelm  Meister  are  the  greatest  sjnnptoms  of  our  age." 

In  the  AtliencBum  both  brothers  give  splendid  testimony 
to  their  astonishing  and  epoch-making  gift  in  transferring 
classical  and  Romance  metrical  forms  into  elegant,  idiom- 
atic German ;  they  give  affectionate  attention  to  the  insinu- 
ating beauty  of  elegiac  verse,  and  secure  charming  effects 
in  some  of  the  most  alien  Greek  forms,  not  to  mention  terza 
rima,  ottava  rima,  the  Spanish  gloss,  and  not  a  few  very 
notable  sonnets. 


THE  EARLY  ROMANTIC  SCHOOL  53 

The  literary  criticisms  of  the  Athenceum  are  character- 
istically free  and  aggressive,  particularly  in  the  frequent 
sneers  at  the  flat  *  *  homely  * '  poetry  of  sandy  North  Ger- 
many. At  the  end  of  the  second  volume,  the  '  *  faked  ' ' 
Literary  Announcements  are  as  daring  as  any  attempts  of 
American  newspaper  humor.  When  the  sum  of  the  con- 
tents and  tendency  of  the  journal  is  drawn,  it  is  a  strange 
mixture  of  discriminating  philosophy,  devoted  Christianity, 
Greek  sensuousness,  and  pornographic  mysticism.  There 
is  a  never-ending  esthetic  coquetry  with  the  flesh,  with  a 
serious  defense  of  some  very  Greek  practices  indeed.  All 
of  this  is  thoroughly  typical  of  the  spirit  of  the  Romantic 
school,  and  it  is  by  no  means  surprising  that  Friedrich's 
first  book,  the  novel  Lucinda  (1799),  should  stand  as  the 
supreme  unsavory  classic  in  this  field.  That  excellent 
divine,  Schleiermacher,  exalted  this  document  of  the  Rights 
of  the  Flesh  as  ' '  a  paean  of  Love,  in  all  its  completeness, ' ' 
but  it  is  a  feeble,  tiresome  performance,  absolutely  without 
structure,  quite  deserving  the  saucy  epigram  on  which  it 
was  pilloried  by  the  wit  of  the  time : 

Pedantry  once  of  Fancy  begged  the  dole 

Of  one  brief  kiss;  she  pointed  him  to  Shame. 

He,  impotent  and  wanton,  then  Shame's  favors  stole. 

Into  the  world  at  length  a  dead  babe  came  — 

''  Lucinda  "  was  its  name. 

The  preaching  of  '*  religion,"  *'  womanliness,"  and  the 
**  holy  fire  of  divine  enjoyment"  makes  an  unedifying 
melange:  *'  The  holiest  thing  in  any  human  being  is  his 
own  mind,  his  own  power,  his  own  will;  "  ''  You  do  all 
according  to  your  own  mind,  and  refuse  to  be  swayed  by 
what  is  usual  and  proper."  Schleiermacher  admired  in 
it  that  *'  highest  wisdom  and  profoundest  religion  "  which 
lead  people  to  ' '  yield  to  the  rhythm  of  fellowship  and  friend- 
ship, and  to  disturb  no  harmony  of  love. ' '  In  more  prosaic 
diction,  the  upshot  of  its  teaching  was  the  surrender  to 
momentary  feelings,  quite  divorced  from  Laws  or  Things. 
The  only  morality  is  *  *  full  Humanity ;  "  "  Nature  alone  is 


54  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

worthy  of  honor,  and  sound  health  alone  is  worthy  of 
love;  "  **  Let  the  discourse  of  love,"  counsels  Julius,  **  be 
bold  and  free,  not  more  chastened  than  a  Roman  elegy  ' '  — 
which  is  certainly  not  very  much  —  and  the  skirmishes  of 
inclination  are,  in  fact,  set  forth  with  an  almost  antique 
simplicity.  Society  is  to  be  developed  only  by  *  *  wit,  * ' 
which  is  seriously  put  into  comparison  with  God  Almighty. 
As  to  practical  ethics,  one  is  told  that  the  most  perfect  life 
is  but  a  pure  vegetation ;  the  right  to  indolence  is  that  which 
really  makes  the  discrimination  between  choice  and  com- 
mon beings,  and  is  the  determining  principle  of  nobility. 
"  The  divine  art  of  being  indolent  "  and  "  the  blissful 
bosom  of  half -conscious  self-forgetfulness  "  naturally  lead 
to  the  thesis  that  the  empty,  restless  exertion  of  men  in 
general  is  nothing  but  Gothic  perversity,  and  **  boots 
naught  but  ennui  to  ourselves  and  others."  Man  is  by 
nature  '  *  a  serious  beast ;  one  must  labor  to  counteract  this 
shameful  tendency."  Schleiermacher  ventured,  it  is  true, 
to  raise  the  question  as  to  whether  the  hero  ought  not  to 
have  some  trace  of  the  chivalrous  about  him,  or  ought  not 
to  do  something  effective  in  the  outer  world  —  and  posterity 
has  fully  supported  this  inquiry. 

Friedrich's  next  most  important  move  was  to  Paris 
(1802),  where  he  gave  lectures  on  philosophy,  and  attempted 
another  journal.  Here  he  began  his  enthusiastic  studies 
of  the  Sanskrit  language  and  literature,  which  proved  to 
have  an  important  influence  on  the  development  of  modem 
philology.  This  is  eminently  true  of  his  work  On  the  Lan- 
guage and  Wisdom  of  the  Indians  (1808).  In  1804  he 
removed  to  Cologne,  where  he  entered  with  great  eagerness 
into  the  work  of  re-discovering  the  medieval  Lower  Rhenish 
School  of  religious  art  and  Gothic  architecture.  In  1808 
he,  with  his  wife  Dorothea  (the  daughter  of  Moses  Men- 
delssohn, who  years  before  this  time  had  left  her  home  and 
family  to  become  his  partner  for  life),  entered  the  Roman 
Catholic  church,  the  interests  of  which  engaged  much  of  his 
energies  for  the  remainder  of  his  life.     He  lived  most  of 


Permission   Wihageii  ^  KlasDi^,  ryuUltUi  ami  Ltipzig 

A  HERMIT  WATERING   HORSES 


MORITZ    VON    ScHWrND 


THE  EARLY  ROMANTIC  SCHOOL  55 

the  time  in  Vienna,  partly  engaged  in  the  literary  service 
of  the  Austrian  government,  partly  in  lecturing  on  history 
and  literature.  He  died  in  1829  in  Dresden,  whither  he 
had  gone  to  deliver  a  course  of  lectures. 

Friedrich  Schlegel's  philosophy  of  life  was  based  upon 
the  theory  of  supremacy  of  the  artist,  the  potency  of  poetry, 
with  its  incidental  corollaries  of  disregard  for  the  Kantian 
ideal  of  Duty,  and  aversion  to  all  Puritanism  and  Protest- 
antism. *  *  There  is  no  great  world  but  that  of  artists, ' '  he 
declared  in  the  Athenceum;  ''  artists  form  a  higher  caste; 
they  should  separate  themselves,  even  in  their  way  of  liv- 
ing, from  other  people."  Poetry  and  philosophy  formed 
in  his  thought  an  inseparable  unit,  forever  joined, ' '  though 
seldom  together  —  like  Castor  and  Pollux."  His  interest 
is  in  ''  Humanity,"  that  is  to  say,  a  superior  type  of  the 
species,  with  a  corresponding  contempt  for ' '  commonness, ' ' 
especially  for  the  common  man  as  a  mere  machine  of 
'  *  duty. ' '  On  performances  he  set  no  great  store :  * '  Those 
countenances  are  most  interesting  to  me  in  which  Nature 
seems  to  have  indicated  a  great  design  without  taking  time 
to  carry  it  out." 

August  Wilhelm  von  Schlegel  (1767-1845),  more  simply 
known  as  ' '  Wilhelm, ' '  was  the  more  balanced,  dignified, 
and  serene  nature,  and  possessed  in  a  far  higher  degree 
than  Friedrich  the  art  of  steering  his  course  smoothly 
through  life.  Of  very  great  significance  in  his  training 
were  his  university  years  at  Gottingen,  and  his  acquaint- 
ance there  with  the  poet  Biirger,  that  early  apostle  of  revolt 
from  a  formal  literature,  whose  own  life  had  become  more 
and  more  discredited  and  was  destined  to  go  out  in  wretch- 
edness and  ignominy ;  the  latter 's  fecundating  activities  had 
never  been  allowed  full  scope,  but  something  of  his  spirit 
of  adventure  into  new  literary  fields  was  doubtless  caught 
by  the  younger  man.  Burger's  attempts  at  naturalizing  the 
sonnet,  for  instance,  are  interesting  in  view  of  the  fact  that 
Wilhelm  Schlegel  became  the  actual  creator  of  this  literary 
form  among  the  Germans.     Schlegel's  own  pursuits  as  a 


56  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

student  were  prevailingly  in  the  field  of  Hellenism,  in 
which  his  acquisitions  were  astounding;  his  influence  was 
especially  potent  in  giving  a  philological  character  to  much 
of  the  work  of  the  Romanticists.  In  Gottingen  he  became 
acquainted  with  one  of  the  most  gifted  women  which  Ger- 
many has  ever  produced,  Caroline,  the  daughter  of  the 
Gottingen  professor  Michaelis,  at  the  time  a  young  widow 
in  the  home  of  her  father,  and  destined  to  become  not  only 
his  wife,  but  the  Muse  of  much  of  his  most  important  work. 
This  office  she  performed  until  the  time  of  their  unfortunate 
separation. 

After  finishing  his  university  studies,  Wilhelm  was  for 
a  while  private  tutor  in  a  wealthy  family  at  Amsterdam, 
where  conditions  of  living  were  most  agreeable,  but  where 
a  suitable  stimulus  to  the  inborn  life  of  his  mind  was  lack- 
ing. He  accordingly  gave  up  this  position  and  returned, 
with  little  but  hopes,  to  Germany.  Then  came  a  call  which 
was  both  congenial  and  honorable.  Schiller's  attention  had 
been  drawn,  years  before,  to  a  review  of  his  own  profound 
philosophical  poem.  The  Artists,  by  an  unknown  young  man, 
whom  he  at  once  sought  to  secure  as  a  regular  contributor 
to  his  literary  journal.  The  New  Thalia.  Nothing  came  of 
this,  chiefly  because  of  Schlegel's  intimate  relations  to 
Burger  at  the  time.  Schiller  had  published,  not  long  before, 
his  annihilatory  review  of  Biirger's  poems,  which  did  so 
much  to  put  that  poet  out  of  serious  consideration  for  the 
remainder  of  his  days.  In  the  meantime  Schiller  had 
addressed  himself  to  his  crowning  enterprise,  the  establish- 
ing of  a  literary  journal  which  should  be  the  final  dictator 
of  taste  and  literary  criticism  throughout  the  German- 
speaking  world.  In  1794  the  plan  for  The  Hours  was 
realized  under  favorable  auspices,  and  in  the  same  year 
occurred  the  death  of  Burger.  In  1796  Schiller  invited 
"Wilhelm  to  become  one  of  the  regular  staff  of  The  HourSf 
and  this  invitation  Schlegel  accepted,  finding  in  it  the  oppor- 
tunity to  marry  Caroline,  with  whom  he  settled  in  Jena 
in  July  of  that  year.     His  first  contribution  to  The  Hours 


THE  EARLY  ROMANTIC  SCHOOL  57 

was  a  masterful  and  extended  treatise  on  Dante,  which  was 
accompanied  by  translations  which  were  clearly  the  most 
distinguished  in  that  field  which  the  German  language  had 
ever  been  able  to  offer.  Schlegel  also  furnished  elaborated 
poems,  somewhat  in  Schiller's  grand  style,  for  the  latter 's 
Almanac  of  the  Muses.  During  the  years  of  his  residence 
at  Jena  (which  continued  until  1801)  Schlegel,  with  the 
incalculable  assistance  of  his  wife,  published  the  first  eight 
volumes  of  those  renderings  of  Shakespeare's  plays  into 
German  which  doubtless  stand  at  the  very  summit  of  the 
art  of  transferring  a  poet  to  an  alien  region,  and  which 
have,  in  actual  fact,  served  to  make  the  Bard  of  Avon  as 
truly  a  fellow-citizen  of  the  Germans  as  of  the  Britons.  " 
Wilhelm's  brother  Friedrich  had  remained  but  a  year  with 
him  in  Jena,  before  his  removal  to  Berlin  and  his  establish- 
ment of  the  Athenceum.  Although  separated  from  his 
brother,  Wilhelm's  part  in  the  conduct  of  the  journal  was 
almost  as  important  as  Friedrich 's,  and,  in  effect,  they  con- 
ducted the  whole  significant  enterprise  out  of  their  own 
resources.  The  opening  essay.  The  Languages,  is  Wil- 
helm's, and  properly,  for  at  this  time  he  was  by  far  the 
better  versed  in  philological  and  literary  matters.  His  cul- 
tural acquisitions,  his  tremendous  spoils  of  reading,  were  + 
greater,  and  his  judgment  more  trustworthy.  In  all  his 
work  in  the  Athenceum  he  presents  a  seasoned,  many-sided 
sense  of  all  poetical,  phonetic  and  musical  values :  rhythm, 
color,  tone,  the  lightest  breath  and  aroma  of  an  elusive 
work  of  art.  One  feels  that  Wilhelm  overhauls  the  whole 
business  of  criticism,  and  clears  the  field  for  coming  lite- 
rary ideals.  Especially  telling  is  his  demolition  of  Klop- 
stock's  violent  "Northernism,"  to  which  he  opposes  a  far 
wider  philosophy  of  grammar  and  style.  The  universality 
of  poetry,  as  contrasted  with  a  narrow  * '  German  ' '  clumsi- 
ness, is  blandly  defended,  and  a  joyous  abandon  is  urged  - 
as  something  better  than  the  meticulous  anxiety  of  chauvin-  ^ 
istic  partisanism.  In  all  his  many  criticisms  of  literature 
there  are  charm,  wit,  and  elegance,  an  individuality  and 


58  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

freedom  in  the  reviewer,  who,  if  less  penetrating  than  his 
brother,  displays  a  far  more  genial  breadth  and  humanity, 
and  more  secure  composure.  His  translations,  more  mas- 
terly than  those  of  Friedrich,  carry  out  Herder's  demand 
for  complete  absorption  and  re-creation. 

In  1801  Schlegel  went  to  Berlin,  where  for  three  suc- 
cessive winters  he  lectured  on  art  and  literature.  His  sub- 
sequent translations  of  Calderon's  plays  (1803-1809)  and 
of  Romance  lyrics  served  to  naturalize  a  large  treasure  of 
southern  poetry  upon  German  soil.  In  1804,  after  having 
separated  from  his  ^^^fe,  he  became  attached  to  the  house- 
hold of  Madame  de  Stael,  and  traversed  Europe  with  her. 
It  is  through  this  association  that  she  was  enabled  to 
write  her  brilliant  work.  On  Germany.  In  1808  he  de- 
livered a  series  of  lectures  on  dramatic  art  and  literature 
in  Vienna,  which  enjoyed  enormous  popularity,  and  are 
still  reckoned  the  crowning  achievement  of  his  career; 
perhaps  the  most  significant  of  these  is  his  discourse  on 
Shakespeare.  In  the  first  volume  of  the  Athenaeum,  Shakes- 
peare 's  universality  had  already  been  regarded  as  *  *  the 
central  point  of  romantic  art."  As  Romanticist,  it  was 
Schlegel 's  office  to  portray  the  independent  development  of 
the  modern  English  stage,  and  to  defend  Shakespeare 
against  the  familiar  accusations  of  barbaric  crudity  and 
formlessness.  In  surveying  the  field,  it  was  likewise  incum- 
bent upon  him  to  demonstrate  in  what  respects  the  classic 
drama  differed  from  the  independently  developed  modern 
play,  and  his  still  useful  generalization  regards  antique  art 
as  limited,  clear,  simple,  and  perfected  —  as  typified  by  a 
work  of  sculpture;  w^hereas  romantic  art  delights  in  min- 
gling its  subjects  —  as  a  painting,  which  embraces  many 
objects  and  looks  out  into  the  widest  vistas.  Apart  from 
the  clarity  and  smoothness  of  these  Vienna  discourses, 
their  lasting  merit  lies  in  their  searching  observation  of 
the  import  of  dramatic  works  from  their  inner  soul,  and  in 
a  most  discriminating  sense  of  the  relation  of  all  their  parts 
to  an  organic  whole. 


THE  EARLY  ROMANTIC  SCHOOL  59 

In  1818  Schlegel  accepted  a  professorship  at  the  Univer- 
sity of  Bonn,  in  which  place  he  exercised  an  incalculable 
influence  upon  one  of  the  rising  stars  of  German  literature, 
young  Heinrich  Heine,  who  derived  from  him  (if  we  may 
judge  from  his  own  testimony  at  the  time;  Heine's  later 
mood  is  a  very  different  matter)  an  iiispiration  amounting 
to  captivation.  The  brilliant  young  student  discovered 
here  a  stimulating  leader  whose  wit,  finish,  and  elegance 
responded  in  full  measure  to  the  hitherto  unsatisfied  crav- 
ings of  his  own  nature.  Although  Heine  had  become  a  very 
altered  person  at  the  time  of  writing  his  Romantic  School 
(1836),  this  book  throws  a  scintillating  illumination  upon 
certain  sides  of  Schlegel 's  temperament,  and  offers  a  vivid 
impression  of  his  living  personality. 

In  these  last  decades  of  his  life  Schlegel  turned,  as  had 
his  younger  brother,  to  the  inviting  field  of  Sanskrit  litera- 
ture and  philology,  and  extracted  large  and  important 
treasures  which  may  still  be  reckoned  among  mankind's 
valued  resources.  When  all  discount  has  been  made  on  the 
side  of  a  lack  of  specific  gravity  in  Wilhelm  Schlegel's 
character,  it  is  only  just  to  assert  that  throughout  his  long 
and  prolific  life  he  wrought  with  incalculable  effect  upon 
the  civilization  of  modern  Europe  as  a  humanizer  of  the 
first  importance. 

Ludwig  Tieck  (1773-1853)  is  reckoned  by  many  students 
of  the  Romantic  period  to  be  the  best  and  most  lasting 
precipitate  which  the  entire  movement  has  to  show.  For 
full  sixty  years  a  most  prolific  writer,  and  occupied  in  the 
main  with  purely  literary  production,  it  is  not  strange  that 
he  came  to  be  regarded  as  the  poetic  mouthpiece  of  the 
school. 

His  birth  was  in  a  middle-class  family  of  Berlin.  A  full 
university  training  at  Halle,  Gottingen  and  Erlangen  was 
accorded  him,  during  which  he  cannot  be  said  to  have  dis- 
tinguished himself  by  any  triumph  in  the  field  of  formal 
studies,  but  in  the  course  of  which  he  assimilated  at  first 
hand  the  chief  modern  languages  of  culture,  without  any 


60  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

professional  guidance.  At  an  early  stage  in  his  growth 
he  discovered  and  fed  full  upon  Shakespeare.  As  a  univer- 
sity student  he  also  fell  in  love  with  the  homely  lore  of 
German  folk-poetry.  In  1794  he  came  back  to  Berlin,  and 
turned  to  rather  banal  hack-writing  for  the  publisher  Nico- 
lai,  chief  of  all  exponents  of  rationalism.  Significant  was 
his  early  rehabilitation  of  popular  folk-tales  and  chap- 
books,  as  in  The  Wonderful  Love-Story  of  Beautiful  Mage- 
lone  and  Count  Peter  of  Provence  (1797).  The  stuff  was 
that  of  one  of  the  prose  chivalry-stories  of  the  middle  ages, 
full  of  marvels,  seeking  the  remote  among  strange  hazards 
by  land  and  sea.  The  tone  of  Tieck's  narrative  is  child- 
like and  naive,  with  rainbow-glows  of  the  bliss  of  romantic 
love,  glimpses  of  the  poetry  and  symbolism  of  Catholic 
tradition,  and  a  somewhat  sugary  admixture  of  the  spirit 
of  the  Minnelied,  with  plenty  of  refined  and  delicate  sensu- 
ousness.  With  the  postulate  that  song  is  the  true  language 
of  life,  the  story  is  sprinkled  with  lyrics  at  every  turn. 
The  whole  adventure  is  into  the  realm  of  dreams  and  vague 
sensations. 

Tieck  must  have  been  liberally  baptized  with  Spree- 
water,  for  the  instantaneous,  corrosive  Berlin  wit  was  a 
large  part  of  his  endowment.  His  cool  irony  associated 
him  more  closely  to  the  Schlegels  than  to  Novalis,  with  his 
life-and-death  consecrations.  His  absurd  play-within-a- 
play,  Puss  in  Boots  (1797),  is  delicious  in  its  bizarre  ragout 
of  satirical  extravaganzas,  where  the  naive  and  the  ironic 
lie  side  by  side,  and  where  the  pompous  seriousness  of  cer- 
tain complacent  standards  is  neatly  excoriated. 

Such  publications  as  the  two  mentioned  were  hailed  with 
rejoicing  by  the  Schlegels,  who  at  once  adopted  Tieck  as  a 
natural  ally.  Even  more  after  their  own  hearts  was  the 
long  novel,  Franz  Sternhald's  Wanderings  (1798),  a  vibrant 
confession,  somewhat  influenced  by  Wilhelm  Meister,  of 
the  Religion  of  Art  (or  the  Art  of  Religion) :  *'  Devout 
worship  is  the  highest  and  purest  joy  in  Art,  a  joy  of  which 
our  natures  are  capable  only  in  their  purest  and  most 


Permission  Vdhagen  &"  Klasing,  Bielefeld  MoxiTz  von  Schwind 

and  Berlin 


A  WAXDERER  LOOKS  INTO  A  LANDSCAPE 


THE  EARLY  ROMANTIC  SCHOOL  61 

exalted  hours."  Sternbald,  a  pupil  of  Albrecht  Diirer, 
makes  a  roving  journey  to  the  Low  Countries,  the  Rhine, 
and  Italy,  in  order  to  deepen  his  artistic  nature.  The  psy- 
chology of  the  novel  is  by  no  means  always  true  to  the 
spirit  of  the  sixteenth  century;  in  fact  a  good  part  of 
the  story  reflects  aristocratic  French  chateau-life  in  the 
eighteenth  century.  The  intensities  of  romantic  friend- 
ship give  a  sustained  thrill,  and  the  style  is  rhythmic, 
though  the  action  is  continually  interrupted  by  episodes, 
lyrics,  and  discourses.  In  the  unworldliness,  the  delicacy 
of  sensibility,  and  the  somewhat  vague  outlines  of  the  story 
one  may  be  reminded,  at  times,  of  The  Marble  Faun.  Its 
defense  of  German  Art,  as  compared  with  that  of  the 
Italian  Renaissance,  is  its  chief  message. 

This  novel  has  been  dwelt  upon  because  of  its  direct  influ- 
ence upon  German  painting  and  religion.  A  new  verb, 
*'  sternhaldisieren,"  was  coined  to  parody  a  new  movement 
in  German  art  toward  the  medieval,  religious  spirit.  It  is 
this  book  which  Heine  had  in  mind  when  he  ridiculed 
Tieck's  ''silly  plunge  into  medieval  naivete."  Overbeck 
and  Cornelius  in  Rome,  with  their  pre-Raphaelite,  old- 
German  and  catholicizing  tendencies,  became  the  leaders  of 
a  productive  school.  Goethe  scourged  it  for  its  ' '  mystic- 
religious  "  aspirations,  and  demanded  a  more  vigorous, 
cheerful  and  progressive  outlook  for  German  painting. 

Having  already  formed  a  personal  acquaintance  with 
Friedrich  Schlegel  in  Berlin,  Tieck  moved  to  Jena  in  1799, 
came  into  very  close  relations  with  Fichte,  the  Schlegels, 
and  Novalis,  and  continued  to  produce  works  in  the  spirit 
of  the  group,  notably  the  tragedy  Life  and  Death  of  Saint 
Genoveva  (1800).  His  most  splendid  literary  feat  at 
this  period,  however,  was  the  translation  of  Don  Quixote 
(1799-1801),  a  triumph  over  just  those  subtle  difficulties 
which  are  well-nigh  insurmountable,  a  rendering  which 
went  far  beyond  any  mere  literalness  of  text,  and  repro- 
duced the  very  tone  and  aura  of  its  original. 

In  1803  he  published  a  graceful  little  volume  of  typical 


62  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

Minnelieder,  renewed  from  the  middle  high-German  period. 
The  note  of  the  book  (in  which  Runge's  copperplate  out- 
lines are  perhaps  as  significant  as  the  poems)  is  spiritual- 
ized sex-love:  the  utterance  of  its  fragrance  and  delicacy, 
its  unique  place  in  the  universe  as  a  pathway  to  the  Divine 
—  a  point  of  view  to  which  the  modern  mind  is  prone  to 
take  some  exceptions,  considering  a  religion  of  erotics 
hardly  firm  enough  ground  to  support  an  entire  philosophy 
of  living.  All  the  motives  of  the  old  court-lyric  are  well 
represented  —  the  torments  and  rewards  of  love,  the  charm 
of  spring,  the  refinements  of  courtly  breeding  —  and  the 
sophisticated  metrical  forms  are  handled  with  great  virtu- 
osity. Schiller,  it  is  true,  compared  them  to  the  chatter  of 
sparrows,  and  Goethe  also  paid  his  compliments  to  the 
**  sing-song  of  the  Minnesingers,"  but  it  was  this  same 
little  book  which  first  gave  young  Jakob  Grimm  the  wish 
to  become  acquainted  with  these  poets  in  their  original 
form. 

That  eminently  ''Romantic"  play,  Emperor  Octavian 
(1804),  derived  from  a  familiar  medieval  chap-book,  lyric 
in  tone  and  loose  in  form,  is  a  pure  epitome  of  the  move- 
ment, and  the  high-water  mark  of  Tieck's  apostleship  and 
service.  Here  Tieck  shows  his  intimate  sense  of  the  poetry 
of  inanimate  nature ;  ironic  mockery  surrenders  completely 
to  religious  devotion;  the  piece  is  bathed  in  — 

The  light  that  never  was  on  sea  or  land, 
The  consecration  and  the  poet's  dream. 

It  is  in  the  prologue  to  this  play  that  personified  Romance 
declares  her  descent  from  Faith,  her  father,  and  Love,  her 
mother,  and  introduces  the  action  by  the  command: 

"  Moonshine-lighted    magic    night 
Holding  every  sense  in  thrall; 
World,  which  wondrous  tales  recall, 
Rise,  in  ancient  splendors  bright !  " 

During  a  year's  residence  in  Italy  Tieck  applied  himself 
chiefly  to  reading  old-German  manuscripts,  in  the  Library 


Permission  Velhc^, 


, y...,-;^ 

A  CHAPEL  IX   THE  FOREST 


MORITZ     \"ON    SCHWIND 


THE  EARLY  ROMANTIC  SCHOOL  63 

of  the  Vatican,  and  wavered  upon  the  edge  of  a  decision  to 
devote  himself  to  Germanic  philology.  The  loss  to  science 
is  not  serious,  for  Tieck  hardly  possessed  the  grasp  and 
security  which  could  have  made  him  a  peer  of  the  great 
pioneers  in  this  field.  From  the  time  of  his  leaving  for 
Italy,  Tieck 's  importance  for  the  development  of  Roman- 
ticism becomes  comparatively  negligible. 

After  a  roving  existence  of  years,  during  which  he  lived 
in  Vienna,  Munich,  Prague  and  London,  he  made  a  settled 
home  in  Dresden.  Here  he  had  an  enviable  place  in  the 
very  considerable  literary  and  artistic  group,  and  led  an 
existence  of  almost  suspiciously  *'  reasonable  "  well-being, 
from  a  Romantic  view-point.  The  "  dramatic  evenings  " 
at  his  home,  in  which  he  read  plays  aloud  before  a  brilliant 
gathering,  were  a  feature  of  social  life.  For  seventeen 
years  he  had  an  influential  position  as  "  drama  turg  "  of 
the  Royal  Theatre,  it  being  his  duty  to  pass  on  plays  to  be 
performed  and  to  decide  upon  suitable  actors  for  the  parts. 

During  his  long  residence  in  Dresden  Tieck  produced  a 
very  large  number  of  short  stories  {Novellen)  which  had  a 
decided  vogue,  though  they  differ  widely  from  liis  earlier 
writings  in  dealing  with  real,  contemporary  life. 

It  is  pleasant  to  record  that  the  evening  of  Tieck 's  long 
life  was  made  secure  from  anxieties  by  a  call  to  Berlin 
from  Friedrich  Wilhelm  IV.,  the  ^'  Romantic  king."  His 
last  eleven  years  were  spent  there  in  quiet  and  peace,  dis- 
turbed only  by  having  to  give  dramatic  readings  before  a 
self-sufficient  court  circle  which  was  imperfectly  equipped 
for  appreciating  the  merits  of  Tieck 's  performances. 

The  early  Romantic  movement  found  its  purest  expres- 
sion in  the  person  and  writings  of  Friedrich  von  Harden- 
berg,  better  known  under  his  assumed  literary  name 
Novalis  (1772-1801).  Both  his  father.  Baron  von  Harden- 
berg  (chief  director  of  the  Saxon  salt-works),  and  his 
mother  belonged  to  the  Moravians,  that  devoted  group  of 
mystical  pietists  whose  sincere  consecration  to  the  things  of 
the  spirit  has  achieved  a  deathless  place  in  the  annals  of  the 


64  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

religious  history  of  the  eighteenth  century,  and,  more  par- 
ticularly, determined  the  beginnings  and  the  essential  char- 
acter of  the  world-mde  Methodist  movement.  His  gentle 
life  presents  very  little  of  dramatic  incident:  he  was  a 
reserved,  somewhat  unsocial  boy,  greatly  devoted  to  study 
and  to  the  reading  of  poetry.  He  was  given  a  most  thor- 
ough education,  and,  while  completing  his  university  career, 
became  acquainted  with  Friedrich  Schlegel,  and  re- 
mained his  most  intimate  friend.  He  also  came  to  know 
J]ichte,  and  eagerly  absorbed  his  Doctrine  of  Science.  A 
little  later  he  came  into  close  relations  with  Wilhelm 
Schlegel  and  Tieck  in  Jena.  He  experienced  a  seraphic 
love  for  a  delicate  girl  of  thirteen,  whose  passing  away  at 
the  age  of  fifteen  served  to  transport  the  youth's  interests 
almost  exclusively  to  the  invisible  world :  ' '  Life  is  a  sick- 
ness of  the  spirit,  a  passionate  Doing. ' '  His  chief  conver- 
sation lay  in  solitude,  in  seeking  for  a  mystic  inner  solution 
of  the  secrets  of  external  nature.  He  loved  to  discourse  on 
these  unseen  realms,  and  to  create  an  ideal  connection  be- 
tween them  all.  The  testimony  of  his  friend  Tieck,  who  in 
company  with  Friedrich  Schlegel  edited  his  works  in  a 
spirit  of  almost  religious  piety,  runs :  * '  The  common  life 
environed  him  like  some  tale  of  fiction,  and  that  realm 
which  most  men  conceive  as  something  far  and  incompre- 
hensible was  the  very  Home  of  his  Soul."  He  was  not 
quite  twenty-nine  years  old  at  the  time  of  his  peaceful 
death,  which  plunged  the  circle  of  his  Romantic  friends  into 
deepest  grief. 

The  envelope  of  his  spiritual  nature  was  so  tenuous  that 
he  seemed  to  respond  to  all  the  subtler  influences  of  the 
universe;  a  sensitive  chord  attuned  to  poetic  values,  he 
appeared  to  exercise  an  almost  mediumistic  refraction  and 
revelation  of  matters  which  lie  only  in  the  realm  of  the 
transcendental  — 

"  Weaving  about  the  commonplace  of  things 
The  golden  haze  of  morning's  blushing  glow." 


THE  EARLY  ROMANTIC  SCHOOL  65 

In  reading  Novalis,  it  is  hardly  possible  to  discriminate 
between  discourse  and  dreaming;  his  passion  was  for 
remote,  never-experienced  things  — 

"  Ah,  lonely  stands,  and  merged  in  woe. 
Who  loves  the  past  with  fervent  glow ! " 

His  homesickness  for  the  invisible  world  became  an 
almost  sensuous  yearning  for  the  joys  of  death. 

In  the  first  volume  of  the  Athencdum  (1798)  a  place  of 
honor  was  given  to  his  group  of  apothegms,  Pollen 
(rather  an  unromantic  translation  for  '*  Bluthenstaub  ") ; 
these  were  largely  supplemented  by  materials  found  after 
his  death,  and  republished  as  Fragments.  In  the  last  vol- 
ume of  the  same  journal  (1800)  appeared  his  Hymns  to 
Night.  Practically  all  of  his  other  published  works  are 
posthumous:  his  unfinished  novel,  Henry  of  Ofterdingen; 
a  set  of  religious  hymns ;  the  beginnings  of  a  "  physical 
novel, ' '  The  Novices  at  Sdis. 

Novalis 's  aphoristic  ' '  seed-thoughts  ' '  reveal  Fichte  's 
transcendental  idealistic  philosophy  as  the  fine-spun  web  of 
all  his  observations  on  life.  The  external  world  is  but  a 
shadow ;  the  universe  is  in  us ;  there,  or  nowhere,  is  infinity, 
with  all  its  systems,  past  or  future;  the  world  is  but  a 
precipitate  of  human  nature. 

The  Novices  at  SdiSj  a  mystical  contemplation  of  nature 
reminding  us  of  the  discourses  of  Jakob  Bohme,  has  some 
suggestion  of  the  symbolistic  lore  of  parts  of  Goethe's 
Wilhelm  Meister,  and  proves  a  most  racking  riddle  to  the 
uninitiated.  The  penetration  into  the  meaning  of  the 
Veiled  Image  of  Nature  is  attempted  from  the  point  of 
view  that  all  is  symbolic:  only  poetic,  intuitive  souls  may 
enter  in ;  the  merely  physical  investigator  is  but  searching 
through  a  charnel-house.  Nature,  the  countenance  of 
Divinity,  reveals  herself  to  the  childlike  spirit ;  to  such  she 
will,  at  her  own  good  pleasure,  disclose  herself  spontane- 
ously, though  gradually.  This  seems  to  be  the  inner  mean- 
ing of  the  episodic  tale.  Hyacinth  and  Rose-Blossom.  The 
rhythmic  prose  Hymns  to  Night  exhale  a  delicate  melan- 

VOL.  IV  — 5 


66  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

choly,  moving  in  a  vague  haze,  and  yet  breathing  a  peace 
which  comes  from  a  knowledge  of  the  deeper  meanings  of 
things,  divined  rather  than  experienced.  Their  stealing 
melody  haunts  the  soul,  however  dazed  the  mind  may  be 
with  their  vagueness,  and  their  exaltation  of  death  above 
life.  In  his  Spiritual  Poems  we  feel  a  simple,  passionate 
intensity  of  adoration,  a  yearning  sjTnpathy  for  the  hope- 
less and  the  heavy-laden ;  in  their  ardent  assurance  of  love, 
peace,  and  rest,  they  are  surely  to  be  reckoned  among  the 
most  intimate   documents   in   the   whole   archives  of  the 

*  *  varieties  of  religious  experience. ' ' 

The  unfinished  novel  Henry  of  Ofterdingen  reaches  a 
depth  of  obscurity  which  is  saved  from  absurdity  only  by 
the  genuinely  fervent  glow  of  a  soul  on  the  quest  for  its 
mystic  ideals :  ' '  The  blue  flower  it  is  that  I  yearn  to  look 
upon !  ' '  No  farcical  romance  of  the  nursery  shows  more 
truly  the  mingled  stuff  that  dreams  are  made  on,  yet  the 
intimation  that  the  dream  is  not  all  a  dream,  that  the  spirit 
of  an  older  day  is  sjTnbolically  struggling  for  some  expres- 
sion in  words,  gave  it  in  its  day  a  serious  importance  at 
which  our  own  age  can  merely  marvel.  It  brings  no  his- 
torical conviction;  it  is  altogether  free  from  such  conven- 
tional limits  as  Time  and  Space,  Stripped  of  its  dreamy 
diction,  there  is  even  a  tropical  residue  of  sensuousness,  to 
which  the  English  language  is  prone  to  give  a  plainer  name. 
It  develops  into  a  fantastic  melange  which  no  American 
mind  can  possibly  reckon  with;  what  its  effect  would  be 
-upon  a  person  relegated  to  reading  it  in  close  confinement, 
it  would  not  be  safe  to  assert,  but  it  is  quite  certain  that 

*  *  this  way  madness  lies. ' ' 

To  generalize  about  the  Romantic  movement,  may  seem 
about  as  practical  as  to  attempt  to  make  a  trigonometrical 
survey  of  the  Kingdom  of  Dreams.  No  epoch  in  all  liter- 
ary history  is  so  hopelessly  entangled  in  the  meshes  of 
subtle  philosophical  speculation,  derived  from  the  most 
complex  sources.     To  deal  with  the  facts  of  classic  art, 


THE  EARLY  ROMANTIC  SCHOOL  67 

which  is  concerned  with  seeking  a  clearly-defined  perfection, 
is  a  simple  matter  compared  with  the  unbounded  and  un- 
defined concepts  of  a  school  which  waged  war  upon  *'  the 
deadliness  of  ascertained  facts  "  and  immersed  itself  in 
vague  intimations  of  glories  that  were  to  be.  Its  most 
authorized  exponent  declared  it  to  be  *  *  the  delineation  of 
sentimental  matter  in  fantastic  form."  A  more  elaborated 
authoritative  definition  is  given  in  the  first  volume  of  the 
Athenceum: 

' '  Romantic  poetry  is  a  progressive  universal-poetry.  Its 
aim  is  not  merely  to  reunite  all  the  dispersed  classes  of 
poetry,  and  to  place  poetry  in  touch  with  philosophy  and 
rhetoric;  it  aims  and  ought  to  aim  to  mingle  and  combine 
poetry  and  prose,  genius  and  criticism,  artistic  and  natural 
poetry;  to  make  poetry  lively  and  social,  to  make  life  and 
society  poetic;  to  poetize  wit,  to  saturate  all  the  forms  of 
art  with  worthy  materials  of  culture  and  enliven  them  by 
the  sallies  of  humor.  It  embraces  everything  that  is  poetic, 
from  the  greatest  and  most  inclusive  system  of  art,  to  the 
sigh,  the  kiss,  that  the  poetic  child  utters  in  artless  song. 
Other  classes  of  poetry  are  complete,  and  may  now  be 
exhaustively  dissected;  romantic  poetry  is  still  in  process 
of  becoming  —  in  fact  this  is  its  chief  characteristic,  that  it 
forever  can  merely  become,  but  never  be  completed.  It  can 
never  be  exhausted  by  any  theory,  and  only  an  intuitive 
criticism  could  dare  to  attempt  to  characterize  its  ideals. 
It  alone  is  endless,  as  it  alone  is  free,  and  asserts  as  its 
first  law  that  the  whim  of  the  poet  tolerates  no  law  above 
itself.  Romantic  poetry  is  the  only  sort  which  is  more 
than  a  class,  and,  as  it  were,  the  art  of  poetry  itself." 

"We  may  in  part  account  for  Romanticism  by  recalling 
that  it  was  the  product  of  an  age  which  was  no  longer  in 
sympathy  with  its  own  tasks,  an  age  of  political  miseries 
and  restrained  powers,  which  turned  away  from  its  own 
surroundings  and  sought  to  be  free  from  all  contact  with 
them,  striving  to  benumb  its  sensations  by  an  auto-intoxi- 
cation of  dreams. 


68  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

Romanticism  is  built  upon  the  imposing  corner-stone  of 
the  unique  importance  of  the  Individual:  '*  To  become  God, 
to  be  man,  to  develop  one's  own  being,  these  are  expres- 
sions for  the  same  thing."  As  personality  is  supreme,  it 
is  natural  that  there  should  follow  a  contempt  for  the  medi- 
ocrity of  current  majorities,  standards  and  opinions.  It 
abhorred  universal  abstractions,  as  opposed  to  the  truth  and 
meaning  of  individual  phenomena.  It  stoutly  believed  in  an 
inexpugnable  right  to  Illusions,  and  held  clarity  and  earnest- 
ness to  be  foes  of  human  happiness.  ''  The  poem  gained 
great  applause,  because  it  had  so  strange,  so  well-nigh  unin- 
telligible a  sound.  It  was  like  music  itself,  and  for  that 
very  reason  attracted  so  irresistibly.  Although  the  hearers 
were  awake,  they  were  entertained  as  though  in  a  dream/' 

Hence  a  purely  lyric  attitude  toward  life,  which  was 
apprehended  only  on  transcendent,  musical  valuations. 
Poetry  was  to  be  the  heart  and  centre  of  actual  living; 
modern  life  seemed  full  of  '*  prose  and  pettiness  "  as  com- 
pared with  the  Middle  Ages;  it  was  the  doctrine  of  this 
Mary  in  the  family  of  Bethany  to  leave  to  the  Martha  of 
dull  externalists  the  care  of  many  things,  while  she  *'  chose 
the  better  part ' '  in  contemplative  lingering  at  the  vision  of 
what  was  essentially  higher.  A  palpitant  imagination  out- 
ranks '  *  cold  intelligence ; ' '  sensation,  divorced  from  all  its 
bearings  or  functions,  is  its  own  excuse  for  being.  Of  re- 
sponsibility, hardly  a  misty  trace ;  realities  are  playthings 
and  to  be  treated  allegorically. 

The  step  was  not  a  long  one  to  the  thesis  that  *  *  disorder 
and  confusion  are  the  pledge  of  true  efficiency ' ' —  such 
being  one  of  the  **  seed-thoughts  "  of  Novalis.  In  mixing 
all  species.  Romanticism  amounts  to  unchartered  freedom, 
'^  die  gesunde,  krdftige  TJngezogenheit."  It  is  no  wonder 
that  so  many  of  its  literary  works  remain  unfinished  frag- 
ments, and  that  many  of  its  exponents  led  unregulated  lives. 

* '  Get  you  irony,  and  form  yourself  to  urbanity  ' '  is  the 
counsel  of  Friedrich  Schlegel.  The  unbridgeable  chasm 
between  Ideal  and  Life  could  not  be  spanned,  and  the 


THE  EARLY  ROMANTIC  SCHOOL  69 

baflfled  idealist  met  this  hopelessness  with  the  shrug  of 
irony.  The  every-day  enthusiasm  of  the  common  life  invited 
only  a  sneer,  often,  it  is  true,  associated  with  flashing  wit. 

Among  its  more  pleasing  manifestations,  Romanticism 
shows  a  remarkable  group  of  gifted,  capable  women,  pos- 
sibly because  this  philosophy  of  intuition  corresponds  to 
the  higher  intimations  of  woman's  soul.  Other  obvious 
fruits  of  the  movement  were  the  revival  of  the  poetry  and 
dignity  of  the  Middle  Ages,  both  in  art  and  life  —  that 
colorful,  form-loving  musical  era  which  the  Age  of  Enlight- 
enment had  so  crassly  despised.  That  this  yearning  for 
the  beautiful  background  led  to  reaction  in  politics  and 
religion  is  natural  enough ;  more  edifying  are  the  rich  fruits 
which  scholarship  recovered  when  Romanticism  had  di- 
rected it  into  the  domains  of  German  antiquity  and  phi- 
lology, and  the  wealth  of  popular  song.  In  addition  to 
these,  we  must  reckon  the  spoils  which  these  adventurers 
brought  back  from  their  quest  into  the  faery  lands  of 
Poetry  in  southern  climes. 

When  all  is  said,  and  in  spite  of  Romanticism's  weak  and 
unmanly  quitting  of  the  field  of  duty,  in  spite  of  certain 
tendencies  to  ignore  and  supersede  the  adamant  founda- 
tions of  morality  upon  which  the  *  *  humanities  ' '  as  well  as 
society  rest,  one  cannot  quite  help  hoping  that  somehow 
good  may  be  the  final  hint  of  it  all.  Like  Mary  Stuart,  it 
is,  at  least,  somewhat  better  than  its  worst  repute,  as  formu- 
lated by  its  enemies.  Estimates  change ;  even  the  excellent 
Wordsworth  was  held  by  the  English  reviewers  to  be  fan- 
tastic and  vague  in  his  Ode  to  Duty.  We  should  not  for- 
get that  the  most  shocking  pronouncements  of  the  Roman- 
ticists were  uttered  half -ironically,  to  say  the  least.  After 
its  excursion  into  the  fantastic  jungle  of  Romanticism,  the 
world  has  found  it  restful  and  restorative,  to  be  sure,  to 
return  to  the  limited  perfection  of  the  serene  and  approved 
classics ;  yet  perchance  it  is  the  last  word  of  all  philosophy 
that  the  astounding  circumambient  Universe  is  almost 
entirely  unperceived  by  our  senses  and  reasoning  powers. 


70  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

Let  us  confess,  and  without  apology,  that  the  country  which 
claims  a  Hawthorne,  a  Poe,  and  a  youthful  Longfellow,  can 
never  surrender  unconditionally  its  hold  upon  the  *'  True 
Romance :  ' ' 

"  Through  wantonness  if  men  profess 
They  weary  of  Thy  parts, 
E'en  let  them  die  at  blasphemy 
And  perish  with  their  arts ; 
But  we  that  love,  but  we  that  jjrove 
Thine  excellence  august, 
While  we  adore  discover  more 
Thee  perfect,  wise,  and  just.     .    .    . 

A  veil  to  draw  'twixt  God  His  Law 

And  Man's  infirmity; 

A  shadow  kind  to  dumb  and  blind 

The  shambles  where  we  die; 

A  sum  to  trick  th'  arithmetic 

Too  base  of  leaguing  odds; 

The  spur  of  trust,  the  curb  of  lust  — 

Thou  handmaid  of  the  Gods ! " 


AUGUST  WILHELM  SCHLEGEL 


LECTURES  ON  DRAMATIC  ART*  (1809) 

TRANSLATED  BY   JOHN   BLACK 

Lecture  XXII 

Comparison  of  the  English  and  Spanish  Theatres  —  Spirit  of  the  Romantic 
Drama  —  Shakespeare  —  His  age  and  the  circumstances  of  his  Life. 

N  conformity  with  the  plan  which  we  laid  down 
at  the  first,  we  shall  now  proceed  to  treat  of 
the  English  and  Spanish  theatres.  We  have 
been,  on  various  occasions,  compelled  in 
passing  to  allude  cursorily,  sometimes  to  the 
one  and  sometimes  to  the  other,  partly  for  the  sake  of 
placing,  by  means  of  contrast,  many  ideas  in  a  clearer  light, 
and  partly  on  account  of  the  influence  which  these  stages 
have  had  on  the  theatres  of  other  countries.  Both  the 
English  and  Spaniards  possess  a  very  rich  dramatic  litera- 
ture, both  have  had  a  number  of  prolific  and  highly  tal- 
ented dramatists,  among  whom  even  the  least  admired  and 
celebrated,  considered  as  a  whole,  display  uncommon  apti- 
tude for  dramatic  animation  and  insight  into  the  essence 
of  theatrical  effect.  The  history  of  their  theatres  has  no 
connection  with  that  of  the  Italians  and  French,  for  they 
developed  themselves  wholly  out  of  the  abundance  of  their 
own  intrinsic  energy,  without  any  foreign  influence:  the 
attempts  to  bring  them  back  to  an  imitation  of  the  ancients, 
or  even  of  the  French,  have  either  been  attended  with  no 
success,  or  not  been  made  till  a  late  period  in  the  decay  of 
the  drama.  The  formation  of  these  two  stages,  again,  is 
equally  independent  of  each  other ;  the  Spanish  poets  were 
altogether  unacquainted  with  the  English ;  and  in  the  older 
and  most  important  period  of  the  English  theatre  I  could 
discover   no   trace   of   any  knowledge   of   Spanish   plays 

•  Permission  The  Macmillan  Co.,  New  York,  and  G.  Bell  &  Sons,  Ltd.,  London. 

[71] 


72  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

(though  their  novels  and  romances  were  certainly  known), 
and  it  was  not  till  the  time  of  Charles  II.  that  translations 
from  Calderon  first  made  their  appearance. 

So  many  things  among  men  have  been  handed  down  from 
century  to  century  and  from  nation  to  nation,  and  the 
human  mind  is  in  general  so  slow  to  invent,  that  originality 
in  any  department  of  mental  exertion  is  everywhere  a  rare 
phenomenon.  We  are  desirous  of  seeing  the  result  of  the 
efforts  of  inventive  geniuses  when,  regardless  of  what  in 
the  same  line  has  elsewhere  been  carried  to  a  high  degree 
of  perfection,  they  set  to  work  in  good  earnest  to  invent 
altogether  for  themselves ;  when  they  lay  the  foundation  of 
the  new  edifice  on  uncovered  ground,  and  draw  all  the 
preparations,  all  the  building  materials,  from  their  own 
resources.  We  participate,  in  some  measure,  in  the  joy 
of  success,  when  we  see  them  advance  rapidly  from  their 
first  helplessness  and  need  to  a  finished  mastery  in  their 
art.  The  history  of  the  Grecian  theatre  would  afford  us 
this  cheering  prospect  could  we  witness  its  rudest  begin- 
nings, which  were  not  preserved,  for  they  were  not  even 
committed  to  writing;  but  it  is  easy,  when  we  compare 
^schylus  and  Sophocles,  to  form  some  idea  of  the  pre- 
ceding period.  The  Greeks  neither  inherited  nor  bor- 
rowed their  dramatic  art  from  any  other  people;  it  was 
original  and  native,  and  for  that  very  reason  was  it  able 
to  produce  a  living  and  powerful  effect.  But  it  ended  with 
the  period  when  Greeks  imitated  Greeks ;  namely,  when  the 
Alexandrian  poets  began  learnedly  and  critically  to  com- 
pose dramas  after  the  model  of  the  great  tragic  writers. 
The  reverse  of  this  was  the  case  with  the  Romans;  they 
received  the  form  and  substance  of  their  dramas  from  the 
Greeks ;  they  never  attempted  to  act  according  to  their  own 
discretion,  or  to  express  their  own  way  of  thinking;  and 
hence  they  occupy  so  insignificant  a  place  in  the  history  of 
dramatic  art.  Among  the  nations  of  modern  Europe,  the 
English  and  Spaniards  alone  (for  the  German  stage  is  but 
forming)  possess  as  yet  a  theatre  entirely  original  and 


ifa^»la>i■fcll^lfellll^-|V^lf^rlTr; 

AUGUST  WILHELM  SCHLEGEL 


LECTURES  ON  DRAMATIC  ART  73 

national,  which,  in  its  own  peculiar  shape,  has  arrived  at 
maturity. 

Those  critics  who  consider  the  authority  of  the  ancients, 
as  models,  to  be  such  that  in  poetry,  as  in  all  the  other  arts, 
there  can  be  no  safety  out  of  the  pale  of  imitation,  affirm 
that,  as  the  nations  in  question  have  not  followed  this 
course,  they  have  brought  nothing  but  irregular  works  on 
the  stage,  which,  though  they  may  possess  occasional  pas- 
sages of  splendor  and  beauty,  must  yet,  as  a  whole,  be  for- 
ever reprobated  as  barbarous  and  wanting  in  form.  We 
have  already,  in  the  introductory  part  of  these  Lectures, 
stated  our  sentiments  generally  on  this  way  of  thinking; 
but  we  must  now  examine  the  subject  somewhat  more 
closely. 

If  the  assertion  be  well  founded,  all  that  distinguishes  the 
works  of  the  greatest  English  and  Spanish  dramatists,  a 
Shakespeare  and  a  Calderon,  must  rank  them  far  below 
the  ancients;  they  could  in  no  wise  be  of  importance  for 
theory,  and  would  at  most  appear  remarkable,  on  the 
assumption  that  the  obstinacy  of  these  nations  in  refusing 
to  comply  with  the  rules  may  have  afforded  a  more  ample 
field  to  the  poets  to  display  their  native  originality,  though 
at  the  expense  of  art.  But  even  this  assumption,  on  a 
closer  examination,  appears  extremely  questionable.  The 
poetic  spirit  requires  to  be  limited,  that  it  may  move  with 
a  becoming  liberty  within  its  proper  precincts,  as  has  been 
felt  by  all  nations  on  the  first  invention  of  metre ;  it  must 
act  according  to  laws  derivable  from  its  own  essence,  other- 
wise its  strength  will  evaporate  in  boundless  vacuity. 

The  works  of  genius  cannot  therefore  be  permitted  to  be 
without  form;  but  of  this  there  is  no  danger.  However, 
that  we  may  answer  this  objection  of  want  of  form,  we  must 
understand  the  exact  meaning  of  the  term  ''  form,"  since 
most  critics,  and  more  especially  those  who  insist  on  a  stiff 
regularity,  interpret  it  merely  in  a  mechanical,  and  not  in 
an  organical  sense.  Form  is  mechanical  when,  through 
external  force,  it  is  imparted  to  any  material  merely  as  an 


74  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

accidental  addition  without  reference  to  its  quality ;  as,  for 
example,  when  we  give  a  particular  shape  to  a  soft  mass 
that  it  may  retain  the  same  after  its  induration.  Organ- 
ical  form,  again,  is  innate;  it  unfolds  itself  from  within, 
and  requires  its  determination  contemporaneously  with  the 
perfect  development  of  the  germ.  We  everywhere  discover 
such  forms  in  nature  throughout  the  whole  range  of  living 
powers,  from  the  crystallization  of  salts  and  minerals  to 
plants  and  flowers,  and  from  these  again  to  the  human 
body.  In  the  fine  arts,  as  well  as  in  the  domain  of  nature, 
the  supreme  artist,  all  genuine  forms  are  organical,  that  is, 
determined  by  the  quality  of  the  work.  In  a  word,  the 
form  is  nothing  but  a  significant  exterior,  the  speaking 
physiognomy  of  each  thing,  which,  as  long  as  it  is  not  dis- 
figured by  any  destructive  accident,  gives  a  true  evidence 
of  its  hidden  essence. 

Hence  it  is  evident  that  the  spirit  of  poetry,  which,  though 
imperishable,  migrates,  as  it  were,  through  different  bodies, 
must,  so  often  as  it  is  newly  born  in  the  human  race,  mold 
to  itself,  out  of  the  nutrimental  substance  of  an  altered  age, 
a  body  of  a  different  conformation.  The  forms  vary  with 
the  direction  taken  by  the  poetical  sense ;  and  when  we  give 
to  the  new  kinds  of  poetry  the  old  names,  and  judge  of 
them  according  to  the  ideas  conveyed  by  these  names,  the 
application  which  we  make  of  the  authority  of  classical 
antiquity  is  altogether  unjustifiable.  No  one  should  be 
tried  before  a  tribunal  to  which  he  is  not  amenable.  We 
may  safely  admit  that  most  of  the  English  and  Spanish 
dramatic  works  are  neither  tragedies  nor  comedies  in  the 
sense  of  the  ancients;  they  are  romantic  dramas.  That 
the  stage  of  a  people  in  its  foundation  and  formation, 
who  neither  knew  nor  wished  to  know  anything  of  foreign 
models,  will  possess  many  peculiarities,  and  not  only 
deviate  from,  but  even  exhibit  a  striking  contrast  to,  the 
theatres  of  other  nations  who  had  a  common  model  for 
imitation  before  their  eyes,  is  easily  supposable,  and  we 
should  onlv  be  astonished  were  it  otherwise.     But  when 


CAROLINE  SCHLEGEL 


LECTURES  ON  DRAMATIC  ART  75 

in  two  nations,  differing  so  widely  as  the  English  and  Span- 
ish in  physical,  moral,  political,  and  religious  respects,  the 
theatres  (which,  without  being  known  to  one  another,  arose 
about  the  same  time)  possess,  along  with  external  and 
internal  diversities,  the  most  striking  features  of  affinity, 
the  attention  even  of  the  most  thoughtless  cannot  but  be 
turned  to  this  phenomenon;  and  the  conjecture  will  natu- 
rally occur  that  the  same,  or,  at  least,  a  kindred  principle 
must  have  prevailed  in  the  development  of  both.  This 
comparison,  however,  of  the  English  and  Spanish  theatre, 
in  their  common  contrast  with  every  dramatic  literature 
which  has  grown  up  out  of  an  imitation  of  the  ancients, 
has,  so  far  as  we  know,  never  yet  been  attempted.  Could 
we  raise  from  the  dead  a  countryman,  a  contemporary  and 
intelligent  admirer  of  Shakespeare,  and  another  of  Cal- 
deron,  and  introduce  to  their  acquaintance  the  works  of  the 
poet  to  which  in  life  they  were  strangers,  they  would  both, 
without  doubt,  considering  the  subject  rather  from  a 
national  than  a  general  point  of  view,  enter  with  difficulty 
into  the  above  idea  and  have  many  objections  to  urge 
against  it.  But  here  a  reconciling  criticism*  must  step  in ; 
and  this,  perhaps,  may  be  best  exercised  by  a  German,  who 
is  free  from  the  national  peculiarities  of  either  English- 
men or  Spaniards,  yet  by  inclination  friendly  to  both,  and 
prevented  by  no  jealousy  from  acknowledging  the  great- 
ness which  has  been  earlier  exhibited  in  other  countries 
than  his  own. 

The  similarity  of  the  English  and  Spanish  theatres  does 
not  consist  merely  in  the  bold  neglect  of  the  Unities  of 
Place  and  Time,  or  in  the  commixture  of  comic  and  tragic 
elements;  that  they  were  unwilling  or  unable  to  comply 


•  This  appropriate  expression  was,  if  we  mistake  not,  first  used  by  M.  Adam 
Miiller  in  his  Lectures  on  German  Science  and  Literature.  If,  however,  he 
gives  himself  out  as  the  inventor  of  the  thing  itself,  he  is,  to  use  the  softest 
word,  in  error.  Long  before  him  other  Oermans  had  endeavored  to  reconcile 
the  contrarieties  of  taste  of  different  ages  and  nations,  and  to  pay  due  homage 
to  all  genuine  poetry  and  art.  Between  good  and  bad,  it  is  true,  no  recon- 
ciliation is  possible. 


76  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

with  the  rules  and  with  right  reason  (in  the  meaning  of 
certain  critics  these  terms  are  equivalent),  may  be  con- 
sidered as  an  evidence  of  merely  negative  properties.  The 
ground  of  the  resemblance  lies  far  deeper,  in  the  inmost 
substance  of  the  fictions  and  in  the  essential  relations 
through  which  every  deviation  of  form  becomes  a  true 
requisite,  which,  together  with  its  validity,  has  also  its 
significance.  What  they  have  in  common  with  each  other 
is  the  spirit  of  the  romantic  poetry,  giving  utterance  to 
itself  in  a  dramatic  shape.  However,  to  explain  ourselves 
with  due  precision,  the  Spanish  theatre,  in  our  opinion, 
down  to  its  decline  and  fall  in  the  commencement  of  the 
eighteenth  century,  is  almost  entirely  romantic;  the  Eng- 
lish is  completely  so  in  Shakespeare  alone,  its  founder  and 
greatest  master ;  but  in  later  poets  the  romantic  principle  ap- 
pears more  or  less  degenerated,  or  is  no  longer  perceivable, 
although  the  march  of  dramatic  composition  introduced  by 
virtue  of  it  has  been,  outwardly  at  least,  pretty  generally 
retained.  The  manner  in  which  the  different  ways  of  think- 
ing of  the  two  nations,  one  a  northern  and  the  other  a 
southern,  have  been  expressed ;  the  former  endowed  with  a 
gloomy,  the  latter  with  a  glowing  imagination;  the  one 
nation  possessed  of  a  scrutinizing  seriousness  disposed  to 
withdraw  within  itself,  the  other  impelled  outwardly  by 
the  violence  of  passion  —  the  mode  in  which  all  this  has 
been  accomplished  will  be  most  satisfactorily  explained  at 
the  close  of  this  section,  when  we  come  to  institute  a  parallel 
between  Shakespeare  and  Calderon,  the  only  two  poets  who 
are  entitled  to  be  called  great. 

Of  the  origin  and  essence  of  the  romantic  I  treated  in  my 
first  Lecture,  and  I  shall  here,  therefore,  merely  briefly 
mention  the  subject.  The  ancient  art  and  poetry  rigor- 
ously separate  things  which  are  dissimilar;  the  romantic 
delights  in  indissoluble  mixtures;  all  contrarieties  —  nature 
and  art,  poetry  and  prose,  seriousness  and  mirth,  recol- 
lection and  anticipation,  spirituality  and  sensuality,  ter- 
restrial and  celestial,  life  and  death,  are  by  it  blended 


LECTURES  ON  DRAMATIC  ART  77 

in  the  most  intimate  combination.  As  the  oldest  law- 
givers delivered  their  mandatory  instructions  and  pre- 
scriptions in  measured  melodies;  as  this  is  fabulously 
ascribed  to  Orpheus,  the  first  softener  of  the  yet  untamed 
race  of  mortals ;  in  like  manner  the  whole  of  ancient  poetry 
and  art  is,  as  it  were,  a  rhythmical  nomos  (law),  a 
harmonious  promulgation  of  the  permanently  established 
legislation  of  a  world  submitted  to  a  beautiful  order  and 
reflecting  in  itself  the  eternal  images  of  things.  Romantic 
poetry,  on  the  other  hand,  is  the  expression  of  the  secret 
attraction  to  a  chaos  which  lies  concealed  in  the  very  bosom 
of  the  ordered  universe,  and  is  perpetually  striving  after 
new  and  marvelous  births ;  the  life-giving  spirit  of  primal 
love  broods  here  anew  on  the  face  of  the  waters.  The 
former  is  more  simple,  clear,  and  like  to  nature  in  the  self- 
existent  perfection  of  her  separate  works;  the  latter,  not- 
withstanding its  fragmentary  appearance,  approaches 
nearer  to  the  secret  of  the  universe.  For  Conception  can 
only  comprise  each  object  separately,  but  nothing  in  truth 
can  ever  exist  separately  and  by  itself;  Feeling  perceives 
all  in  all  at  one  and  the  same  time. 

Respecting  the  two  species  of  poetry  with  which  we 
are  here  principally  occupied,  we  compared  the  ancient 
Tragedy  to  a  group  in  sculpture,  the  figures  corresponding 
to  the  characters,  and  their  grouping  to  the  action ;  and  to 
these  two,  in  both  productions  of  art,  is  the  consideration 
exclusively  directed,  as  being  all  that  is  properly  exhibited. 
But  the  romantic  drama  must  be  viewed  as  a  large  picture, 
where  not  merely  figure  and  motion  are  exhibited  in  larger, 
richer  groups,  but  where  even  all  that  surrounds  the  figures 
must  also  be  portrayed ;  where  we  see  not  merely  the  near- 
est objects,  but  are  indulged  with  the  prospect  of  a  con- 
siderable distance ;  and  all  this  under  a  magical  light  which 
assists  in  giving  to  the  impression  the  particular  character 
desired. 

Such  a  picture  must  be  bounded  less  perfectly  and  less 
distinctly  than  the  group ;  for  it  is  like  a  fragment  cut  out 


78  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

of  the  optic  scene  of  the  world.  However,  the  painter,  by 
the  setting  of  his  foreground,  by  throwing  the  whole  of  his 
light  into  the  centre,  and  by  other  means  of  fixing  the  point 
of  view,  will  learn  that  he  must  neither  wander  beyond  the 
composition  nor  omit  anything  within  it. 

In  the  representation  of  figure.  Painting  cannot  compete 
with  Sculpture,  since  the  former  can  exhibit  it  only  by  a 
deception  and  from  a  single  point  of  view ;  but,  on  the  other 
hand,  it  communicates  more  life  to  its  imitations  by  colors 
which  in  a  picture  are  made  to  imitate  the  lightest  shades 
of  mental  expression  in  the  countenance.  The  look,  which 
can  be  given  only  very  imperfectly  by  Sculpture,  enables 
us  to  read  much  deeper  in  the  mind  and  perceive  its 
lightest  movements.  Its  peculiar  charm,  in  short,  consists 
in  this,  that  it  enables  us  to  see  in  bodily  objects  what  is 
least  corporeal,  namely,  light  and  air. 

The  very  same  description  of  beauties  are  peculiar  to  the 
romantic  drama.  It  does  not  (like  the  Old  Tragedy)  sepa- 
rate seriousness  and  the  action,  in  a  rigid  manner,  from 
among  the  whole  ingredients  of  life;  it  embraces  at  once 
the  whole  of  the  chequered  drama  of  life  with  all  its  circum- 
stances; and  while  it  seems  only  to  represent  subjects 
brought  accidentally  together,  it  satisfies  the  unconscious 
requisitions  of  fancy,  buries  us  in  reflections  on  the  inex- 
pressible signification  of  the  objects  which  we  view  blended 
by  order,  nearness  and  distance,  light  and  color,  into  one 
harmonious  whole;  and  thus  lends,  as  it  were,  a  soul  to 
the  prospect  before  us. 

The  change  of  time  and  of  place  (supposing  its  influence 
on  the  mind  to  be  included  in  the  picture  and  that  it  comes 
to  the  aid  of  the  theatrical  perspective,  with  reference  to 
what  is  indicated  in  the  distance,  or  half-concealed  by  inter- 
vening objects) ;  the  contrast  of  gayety  and  gravity  (sup- 
posing that  in  degree  and  kind  they  bear  a  proportion  to 
each  other) ;  finally,  the  mixture  of  the  dialogical  and  the 
lyrical  elements  (by  which  the  poet  is  enabled,  more  or 
less  perfectly,  to  transform  his  personages  into  poetical 


LECTURES  ON  DRAMATIC  ART  79 

beings) — these,  in  my  opinion,  are  not  mere  licenses,  but 
true  beauties  in  the  romantic  drama.  In  all  these  points, 
and  in  many  others  also,  the  English  and  Spanish  works, 
which  are  preeminently  worthy  of  this  title  of  Romantic, 
fully  resemble  each  other,  however  different  they  may  be  in 
other  respects. 

Of  the  two  we  shall  first  notice  the  English  theatre, 
because  it  arrived  at  maturity  earlier  than  the  Spanish. 
In  both  we  must  occupy  ourselves  almost  exclusively  with 
a  single  artist,  with  Shakespeare  in  the  one  and  Calderon 
in  the  other;  but  not  in  the  same  order  with  each,  for 
Shakespeare  stands  first  and  earliest  among  the  English; 
any  remarks  we  may  have  to  make  on  earlier  or  contem- 
porary antiquities  of  the  English  stage  may  be  made  in  a 
review  of  his  history.  But  Calderon  had  many  prede- 
cessors; he  is  at  once  the  summit  and  almost  the  close  of 
dramatic  art  in  Spain. 

The  wish  to  speak  with  the  brevity  which  the  limits  of 
my  plan  demand,  of  a  poet  to  the  study  of  whom  I  have 
devoted  many  years  of  my  life,  places  me  in  no  little  embar- 
rassment. I  know  not  where  to  begin ;  for  I  should  never 
be  able  to  end,  were  I  to  say  all  that  I  have  felt  and  thought 
on  the  perusal  of  his  works.  With  the  poet,  as  with  the 
man,  a  more  than  ordinary  intimacy  prevents  us,  perhaps, 
from  putting  ourselves  in  the  place  of  those  who  are  first 
forming  an  acquaintance  with  him:  we  are  too  familiar 
with  his  most  striking  peculiarities  to  be  able  to  pronounce 
upon  the  first  impression  which  they  are  calculated  to  make 
on  others.  On  the  other  hand,  we  ought  to  possess,  and 
to  have  the  power  of  communicating,  more  correct  ideas 
of  his  mode  of  procedure,  of  his  concealed  or  less  obvious 
views,  and  of  the  meaning  and  import  of  his  labors,  than 
others  whose  acquaintance  with  him  is  more  limited. 

Shakespeare  is  the  pride  of  his  nation.  A  late  poet  has, 
with  propriety,  called  him  "  the  genius  of  the  British 
isles.'*  He  was  the  idol  of  his  contemporaries  during  the 
interval,  indeed,  of  puritanical  fanaticism,  which  broke  out 


80  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

in  the  next  generation  and  rigorously  proscribed  all  liberal 
arts  and  literature,  and,  during  the  reign  of  the  second 
Charles,  when  his  works  were  either  not  acted  at  all,  or,  if 
so,  very  much  changed  and  disfigured,  his  fame  was  awhile 
obscured,  only  to  shine  forth  again  about  the  beginning  of 
the  last  century  with  more  than  its  original  brightness; 
but  since  then  it  has  only  increased  in  lustre  with  the  course 
of  time;  and  for  centuries  to  come  (I  speak  it  with  the 
greatest  confidence)  it  will,  like  an  Alpine  avalanche,  con- 
tinue to  gather  strength  at  every  moment  of  its  progress. 
Of  the  future  extension  of  his  fame,  the  enthusiasm  with 
which  he  was  naturalized  in  Germany,  the  moment  that  he 
was  known,  is  a  significant  earnest.  In  the  South  of 
Europe,*  his  language  and  the  great  difficulty  of  translat- 
ing him  with  fidelity  will  be,  perhaps,  an  invincible  obstacle 
to  his  general  diffusion.  In  England,  the  greatest  actors 
vie  with  one  another  in  the  impersonation  of  his  characters ; 
the  printers  in  splendid  editions  of  his  works;  and  the 
painters  in  transferring  his  scenes  to  the  canvas.  Like 
Dante,  Shakespeare  has  received  the  perhaps  inevitable 
but  still  cumbersome  honor  of  being  treated  like  a  classical 
author  of  antiquity.  The  oldest  editions  have  been  care- 
fully collated,  and,  where  the  readings  seemed  corrupt, 
many  corrections  have  been  suggested;  and  the  w^hole  liter- 
ature of  his  age  has  been  drawn  forth  from  the  oblivion 
to  which  it  had  been  consigned,  for  the  sole  purpose  of 
explaining  the  phrases  and  illustrating  the  allusions  of 
Shakespeare.  Commentators  have  succeeded  one  another 
in  such  number  that  their  labors  alone,  with  the  critical 
controversies  to  which  they  have  given  rise,  constitute  of 
themselves  no  inconsiderable  library.  These  labors  deserve 
both  our  praise  and  gratitude  —  more  especially  the  his- 
torical investigations  into  the  sources  from  which  Shakes- 
peare drew  the  materials  of  his  plays  and  also  into  the  pre- 

*  This  difficulty  extends  also  to  France;  for  it  must  not  be  supposed  that  a 
literal  translation  can  ever  be  a  faithful  one.  Mrs.  Montague  has  done  enough 
to  prove  how  wretchedly  even  Voltaire,  in  his  rhymeless  Alexandrines,  has 
translated  a  few  passages  from  Hamlet  and  the  first  act  of  Julius  CcBsar. 


LECTURES  ON  DRAMATIC  ART  81 

vious  and  contemporary  state  of  the  English  stage,  as  well 
as  other  kindred  subjects  of  inquiry.  With  respect,  however, 
to  their  merely  philological  criticisms,  I  am  frequently  com- 
pelled to  differ  from  the  commentators;  and  where,  too, 
considering  him  simply  as  a  poet,  they  endeavor  to  enter 
into  his  views  and  to  decide  upon  his  merits,  I  must  sepa- 
rate myself  from  them  entirely.  I  have  hardly  ever  found 
either  truth  or  profundity  in  their  remarks;  and  these 
critics  seem  to  me  to  be  but  stammering  interpreters  of 
the  general  and  almost  idolatrous  admiration  of  his  coun- 
trjTuen.  There  may  be  people  in  England  who  entertain 
the  same  views  of  them  with  myself,  at  least  it  is  a  well- 
known  fact  that  a  satirical  poet  has  represented  Shakes- 
peare, under  the  hands  of  his  commentators,  by  Actaeon 
worried  to  death  by  his  own  dogs;  and,  following  up  the 
story  of  Ovid,  designated  a  female  writer  on  the  great  poet 
as  the  snarling  Lycisca. 

We  shall  endeavor,  in  the  first  place,  to  remove  some  of 
these  false  views,  in  order  to  clear  the  way  for  our  own 
homage,  that  we  may  thereupon  offer  it  the  more  freely 
without  let  or  hindrance. 

From  all  the  accounts  of  Shakespeare  which  have  come 
down  to  us  it  is  clear  that  his  contemporaries  knew  well 
the  treasure  they  possessed  in  him,  and  that  they  felt  and 
understood  him  better  than  most  of  those  who  succeeded 
him.  In  those  days  a  work  was  generally  ushered  into  the 
world  with  Commendatory  Verses;  and  one  of  these,  pre- 
fixed to  an  early  edition  of  Shakespeare,  by  an  unknown 
author,  contains  some  of  the  most  beautiful  and  happy  lines 
that  were  ever  applied  to  any  poet.*  An  idea,  however, 
soon  became  prevalent  that  Shakespeare  was  a  rude  and 
wild  genius,  who  poured  forth  at  random,  and  without  aim 
or  object,  his  unconnected  compositions.  Ben  Jonson,  a 
younger  contemporary  and  rival  of  Shakespeare,  who 
labored  in  the  sweat  of  his  brow,  but  w^th  no  great  success, 

*  It  begins  with  the  words:  A  mind  reflecting  ages  past,  and  is  subscribed 
I.  M.  S. 

Vol.  IV  — 6 


82  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

to  expel  the  romantic  drama  from  the  English  stage  and 
to  form  it  on  the  model  of  the  ancients,  gave  it  as  his 
opinion  that  Shakespeare  did  not  blot  enough,  and  that,  as 
he  did  not  possess  much  school-learning,  he  owed  more  to 
nature  than  to  art.  The  learned,  and  sometimes  rather 
pedantic  Milton  was  also  of  this  opinion,  when  he  says  — 

Our  sweetest  Shakespeare,  fancy's  child, 
Warbles  his  native  wood-notes  wild. 

Yet  it  is  highly  honorable  to  Milton  that  the  sweetness  of 
Shakespeare,  the  quality  which  of  all  others  has  been  least 
allowed,  was  felt  and  acknowledged  by  him.  The  modern 
editors,  both  in  their  prefaces,  which  may  be  considered 
as  so  many  rhetorical  exercises  in  praise  of  the  poet,  and 
in  their  remarks  on  separate  passages,  go  still  farther. 
Judging  them  by  principles  which  are  not  applicable  to 
them,  not  only  do  they  admit  the  irregularity  of  his  pieces, 
but,  on  occasion,  they  accuse  him  of  bombast,  of  a  confused, 
ungrammatical,  and  conceited  mode  of  writing,  and  even  of 
the  most  contemptible  buffoonery.  Pope  asserts  that  he 
wrote  both  better  and  worse  than  any  other  man.  All  the 
scenes  and  passages  which  did  not  square  with  the  little- 
ness of  his  own  taste,  he  wished  to  place  to  the  account  of 
interpolating  players;  and  he  was  on  the  right  road,  had 
his  opinion  been  taken,  of  giving  us  a  miserable  dole  of  a 
mangled  Shakespeare.  It  is,  therefore,  not  to  be  wondered 
at  if  foreigners,  with  the  exception  of  the  Germans  latterly, 
have,  in  their  ignorance  of  him,  even  improved  upon  these 
opinions.*  They  speak  in  general  of  Shakespeare's  plays 
as  monstrous  productions,  which  could  have  been  given  to 
the  world  only  by  a  disordered  imagination  in  a  barbarous 
age;  and  Voltaire  crowns  the  whole  with  more  than  usual 

•  Lessing  was  the  first  to  speak  of  Shakespeare  in  a  becoming  tone;  but  he 
said,  unfortunately,  a  great  deal  too  little  of  him,  as  in  the  time  when  he  wrote 
the  Dramaturgie  this  poet  had  not  yet  appeared  on  our  stage.  Since  that 
time  he  has  been  more  particularly  noticed  by  Herder  in  the  Blatter  von 
deutscher  Art  und  Kunst ;  Goethe,  in  Wilhelm  Meister;  and  Tieck,  in  "'  Letters 
on  Shakespeare"  (Poetisches  Journal,  1800),  which  break  off,  however,  almost 
at  the  commencement. 


LECTURES  ON  DRAMATIC  ART  83 

assurance  when  he  observes  that  Hamlet,  the  profound 
masterpiece  of  the  philosophical  poet,  "  seems  the  work  of 
a  drunken  savage."  That  foreigners,  and,  in  particular, 
Frenchmen,  who  ordinarily  speak  the  most  strange  lan- 
guage of  antiquity  and  the  middle  ages,  as  if  cannibalism 
had  been  terminated  in  Europe  only  by  Louis  XIV., 
should  entertain  this  opinion  of  Shakespeare,  might  be  par- 
donable; but  that  Englishmen  should  join  in  calumniating 
that  glorious  epoch  of  their  history,*  which  laid  the  founda- 
tion of  their  national  greatness,  is  incomprehensible. 
Shakespeare  flourished  and  wrote  in  the  last  half  of  the 
reign  of  Queen  Elizabeth  and  first  half  of  that  of  James  I. ; 
and,  consequently,  under  monarchs  who  were  learned  them- 
selves and  held  literature  in  honor.  The  policy  of  modern 
Europe,  by  which  the  relations  of  its  different  states  have 
been  so  variously  interwoven  with  one  another,  commenced 
a  century  before.  The  cause  of  the  Protestants  was  decided 
by  the  accession  of  Elizabeth  to  the  throne ;  and  the  attach- 
ment to  the  ancient  belief  cannot  therefore  be  urged  as  a 
proof  of  the  prevailing  darkness.  Such  was  the  zeal  for 
the  study  of  the  ancients  that  even  court  ladies,  and  the 
queen  herself,  were  acquainted  with  Latin  and  Greek,  and 
taught  even  to  speak  the  former — a  degree  of  knowledge 
which  we  should  in  vain  seek  for  in  the  courts  of  Europe 
at  the  present  day.  The  trade  and  navigation  which  the 
English  carried  on  with  all  the  four  quarters  of  the  world 
made  them  acquainted  with  the  customs  and  mental  produc- 
tions of  other  nations ;  and  it  would  appear  that  they  were 

.*  The  English  work  with  which  foreigners  of  every  country  are  perhaps 
best  acquainted  is  Hume's  History;  and  there  we  have  a  most  unjustifiable 
account  both  of  Shakespeare  and  his  age.  "  Born  in  a  rude  age,  and  educated 
in  the  lowest  manner,  without  any  instruction  either  from  the  xcorld  or  from 
books."  How  could  a  man  of  Hume's  acuteness  suppose  for  a  moment  that  a 
poet,  whose  characters  display  such  an  intimate  acquaintance  with  life,  who, 
as  an  actor  and  manager  of  a  theatre,  must  have  come  in  contact  with  all 
descriptions  of  individuals,  had  no  instruction  from  the  world?  But  this  is 
not  the  worst;  he  goes  even  so  far  as  to  say,  "a  reasonable  propriety  of 
thought  he  cannot  for  any  time  uphold."  This  is  nearly  as  offensive  as 
Voltaire's  "  drunken  savage."  —  Trans. 


84  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

then  more  indulgent  to  foreign  manners  than  they  are  in 
the  present  day.  Italy  had  already  produced  nearly  all 
that  still  distinguishes  her  literature,  and,  in  England, 
translations  in  verse  were  diligently,  and  even  successfully, 
executed  from  the  Italian.  Spanish  literature  also  was  not 
unknown,  for  it  is  certain  that  Don  Quixote  was  read  in 
England  soon  after  its  first  appearance.  Bacon,  the 
founder  of  modern  experimental  philosophy,  and  of  whom 
it  may  be  said  that  he  carried  in  his  pocket  all  that  even 
in  this  eighteenth  century  merits  the  name  of  philosophy, 
was  a  contemporary  of  Shakespeare.  His  fame  as  a 
writer  did  not,  indeed,  break  forth  into  its  glory  till  after 
his  death;  but  what  a  number  of  ideas  must  have  been  in 
circulation  before  such  an  author  could  arise!  Many 
branches  of  human  knowledge  have,  since  that  time,  been 
more  extensively  cultivated,  but  such  branches  as  are  totally 
unproductive  to  poetry  —  chemistry,  mechanics,  man- 
ufactures, and  rural  and  political  economy  —  will  never 
enable  a  man  to  become  a  poet.  I  have  elsewhere*  exam- 
ined into  the  pretensions  of  modern  enlightenment,  as  it  is 
called,  which  looks  with  such  contempt  on  all  preceding 
ages ;  I  have  shown  that  at  bottom  it  is  all  small,  superficial, 
and  unsubstantial.  The  pride  of  what  has  been  called  * '  the 
existing  maturity  of  human  intensity  ' '  has  come  to  a  miser- 
able end;  and  the  structures  erected  by  those  pedagogues 
of  the  human  race  have  fallen  to  pieces  like  the  baby-houses 
of  children. 

With  regard  to  the  tone  of  society  in  Shakespeare's  day, 
it  is  necessary  to  remark  that  there  is  a  wide  difference 
between  true  mental  cultivation  and  what  is  called  polish. 
That  artificial  polish  which  puts  an  end  to  everything  like 
free  original  communication  and  subjects  all  intercourse 
to  the  insipid  uniformity  of  certain  rules,  was  undoubtedly 
wholly  unknown  to  the  age  of  Shakespeare,  as  in  a  great 
measure  it  still  is  at  the  present  day  in  England.  It  pos- 
sessed, on  the  other  hand,  a  fulness  of  healthy  vigor,  which 

*  In  my  lectures  on  The  Spirit  of  the  Age. 


LECTURES  ON  DRAMATIC  ART  85 

showed  itself  always  with  boldness,  and  sometimes  also 
with  coarseness.  The  spirit  of  chivalry  was  not  yet  wholly 
extinct,  and  a  queen,  who  was  far  more  jealous  in  exacting 
homage  to  her  sex  than  to  her  throne,  and  who,  with  her 
determination,  wisdom,  and  magnanimity,  was  in  fact  well 
qualified  to  inspire  the  minds  of  her  subjects  with  an  ardent 
enthusiasm,  inflamed  that  spirit  to  the  noblest  love  of  glory 
and  renown.  The  feudal  independence  also  still  survived 
in  some  measure;  the  nobility  vied  with  one  another  in 
splendor  of  dress  and  number  of  retinue,  and  every  great 
lord  had  a  sort  of  small  court  of  his  own.  The  distinction 
of  ranks  was  as  yet  strongly  marked  —  a  state  of  things 
ardently  to  be  desired  by  the  dramatic  poet.  In  con- 
versation they  took  pleasure  in  quick  and  unexpected 
answers ;  and  the  witty  sally  passed  rapidly  like  a  ball  from 
mouth  to  mouth,  till  the  merry  game  could  no  longer  be 
kept  up.  This,  and  the  abuse  of  the  play  on  words  (of 
which  King  James  was  himself  very  fond,  and  we  need 
not  therefore  wonder  at  the  universality  of  the  mode),  may, 
doubtless,  be  considered  as  instances  of  a  bad  taste;  but 
to  take  them  for  symptoms  of  rudeness  and  barbarity 
is  not  less  absurd  than  to  infer  the  poverty  of  a  people 
from  their  luxurious  extravagance.  These  strained  rep- 
artees are  frequently  employed  by  Shakespeare,  with  the 
view  of  painting  the  actual  tone  of  the  society  in  his  day; 
it  does  not,  however,  follow  that  they  met  with  his  appro- 
bation; on  the  contrary,  it  clearly  appears  that  he  held 
them  in  derision.  Hamlet  says,  in  the  scene  with  the 
gravedigger,  ''  By  the  Lord,  Horatio,  these  three  years 
I  have  taken  note  of  it :  the  age  is  grown  so  picked  that  the 
toe  of  the  peasant  comes  so  near  the  heel  of  the  courtier, 
he  galls  his  kibe."  And  Lorenzo,  in  the  Merchant  of 
Venice,  alluding  to  Launcelot : 

O  dear  discretion,  how  his  words  are  suited! 
The  fool  hath  planted  in  his  memory 
An  army  of  good  words:   and  I  do  know 
A  many  fools,  that  stand  in  better  place, 
Garnish'd  like  him,  that  for  a  tricksy  word 
Defy  the  matter. 


86  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

Besides,  Shakespeare,  in  a  thousand  places,  lays  great 
and  marked  stress  on  a  correct  and  refined  tone  of  society, 
and  lashes  every  deviation  from  it,  whether  of  boorishness 
or  affected  foppery;  not  only  does  he  give  admirable  dis- 
courses on  it,  but  he  represents  it  in  all  its  shades  and 
modifications  by  rank,  age,  or  sex.  What  foundation  is 
there,  then,  for  the  alleged  barbarity  of  his  age,  its 
offences  against  propriety?  But  if  this  is  to  be  admitted 
as  a  test,  then  the  ages  of  Pericles  and  Augustus  must  also 
be  described  as  rude  and  uncultivated;  for  Aristophanes 
and  Horace,  who  were  both  considered  as  models  of  urban- 
ity, display,  at  times,  the  coarsest  indelicacy.  On  this  sub- 
ject, the  diversity  in  the  moral  feeling  of  ages  depends 
on  other  causes.  Shakespeare,  it  is  true,  sometimes  in- 
troduces us  to  improper  company;  at  others,  he  suffers 
ambiguous  expressions  to  escape  in  the  presence  of  women, 
and  even  from  women  themselves.  This  species  of  indeli- 
cacy was  probably  not  then  unusual.  He  certainly  did 
not  indulge  in  it  merely  to  please  the  multitude,  for  in  many 
of  his  pieces  there  is  not  the  slightest  trace  of  this  sort 
to  be  found;  and  in  what  virgin  purity  are  many  of  his 
female  parts  worked  out !  When  we  see  the  liberties  taken 
by  other  dramatic  poets  in  England  in  his  time,  and  even 
much  later,  we  must  account  him  comparatively  chaste  and 
moral.  Neither  must  we  overlook  certain  circumstances 
in  the  existing  state  of  the  theatre.  The  female  parts  were 
not  acted  by  women,  but  by  boys ;  and  no  person  of  the  fair 
sex  appeared  in  the  theatre  without  a  mask.  Under  such  a 
carnival  disguise,  much  might  be  heard  by  them,  and  much 
might  be  ventured  to  be  said  in  their  presence,  which  in 
other  circumstances  would  have  been  absolutely  improper. 
It  is  certainly  to  be  washed  that  decency  should  be  observed 
on  all  public  occasions,  and  consequently  also  on  the  stage. 
But  even  in  this  it  is  possible  to  go  too  far.  That  carping 
censoriousness  which  scents  out  impurity  in  every  bold 
sally,  is,  at  best,  but  an  ambiguous  criterion  of  purity  of 
morals;  and  beneath  this  hypocritical  guise  there  often 


LECTURES  ON  DRAMATIC  ART  87 

lurks  the  consciousness  of  an  impure  imagination.  The 
determination  to  tolerate  nothing  which  has  the  least  ref- 
erence to  the  sensual  relation  between  the  sexes,  may 
be  carried  to  a  pitch  extremely  oppressive  to  a  dramatic 
poet  and  highly  prejudicial  to  the  boldness  and  freedom 
of  his  compositions.  If  such  considerations  were  to  be 
attended  to,  many  of  the  happiest  parts  of  Shakespeare's 
plays,  for  example,  in  Measure  for  Measure,  and  All's 
Well  that  Ends  Well,  which,  nevertheless,  are  handled  with 
a  due  regard  to  decency,  must  be  set  aside  as  sinning 
against  this  would-be  propriety. 

Had  no  other  monuments  of  the  age  of  Elizabeth  come 
down  to  us  than  the  works  of  Shakespeare,  I  should,  from 
them  alone,  have  formed  the  most  favorable  idea  of  its 
state  of  social  culture  and  enlightenment.  When  those 
who  look  through  such  strange  spectacles  as  to  see  nothing 
in  them  but  rudeness  and  barbarity  cannot  deny  what  I 
have  now  historically  proved,  they  are  usually  driven  to 
this  last  resource,  and  demand,  ''What  has  Shakespeare 
to  do  with  the  mental  culture  of  his  age?  He  had  no  share 
in  it.  Born  in  an  inferior  rank,  ignorant  and  uneducated, 
he  passed  his  life  in  low  society,  and  labored  to  please  a 
vulgar  audience  for  his  bread,  without  ever  dreaming  of 
fame  or  posterity." 

In  all  this  there  is  not  a  single  word  of  truth,  though  it 
has  been  repeated  a  thousand  times.  It  is  true  we  know 
very  little  of  the  poet's  life ;  and  what  we  do  know  consists 
for  the  most  part  of  raked-up  and  chiefly  suspicious 
anecdotes,  of  about  such  a  character  as  those  which  are 
told  at  inns  to  inquisitive  strangers  who  visit  the  birth- 
place or  neighborhood  of  a  celebrated  man.  Within  a  very 
recent  period  some  original  documents  have  been  brought 
to  light,  and,  among  them,  his  will,  which  give  us  a  peep 
into  his  family  concerns.  It  betrays  more  than  ordinary 
deficiency  of  critical  acumen  in  Shakespeare's  commen- 
tators, that  none  of  them,  so  far  as  we  know,  has  ever 
thought   of  availing  himself  of  his   sonnets   for  tracing 


88  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

the  circumstances  of  his  life.  These  sonnets  paint  most 
unequivocally  the  actual  situation  and  sentiments  of  the 
poet;  they  make  us  acquainted  with  the  passions  of  the 
man;  they  even  contain  remarkable  confessions  of  his 
youthful  errors.  Shakespeare 's  father  was  a  man  of  prop- 
erty, whose  ancestors  had  held  the  office  of  alderman  and 
bailiff  in  Stratford;  and  in  a  diploma  from  the  Heralds' 
Office  for  the  renewal  or  confirmation  of  his  coat  of  arms, 
he  is  styled  gentleman.  Our  poet,  the  oldest  son  but  third 
child,  could  not,  it  is  true,  receive  an  academic  education, 
as  he  married  when  hardly  eighteen,  probably  from  mere 
family  considerations.  This  retired  and  unnoticed  life  he 
continued  to  lead  but  a  few  years;  and  he  was  either  en- 
ticed to  London  from  wearisomeness  of  his  situation,  or 
banished  from  home,  as  it  is  said,  in  consequence  of  his 
irregularities.  There  he  assumed  the  profession  of  a 
player,  which  he  considered  at  first  as  a  degradation,  prin- 
cipally, perhaps,  because  of  the  wild  excesses  *  into  which 
he  was  seduced  by  the  example  of  his  comrades.  It  is 
extremely  i3robable  that  the  poetical  fame  which,  in  the 
progress  of  his  career,  he  afterward  acquired,  greatly  con- 
tributed to  ennoble  the  stage  and  to  bring  the  player's 
profession  into  better  repute.  Even  at  a  very  early  age  he 
endeavored  to  distinguish  himself  as  a  poet  in  other  walks 
than  those  of  the  stage,  as  is  proved  by  his  juvenile  poems 
of  Adonis  and  Lucrece.  He  quickly  rose  to  be  a  sharer  or 
joint  proprietor,  and  also  manager,  of  the  theatre  for  which 
he  wrote.  That  he  was  not  admitted  to  the  society  of  per- 
sons of  distinction  is  altogether  incredible.  Not  to  mention 
many  others,  he  found  a  liberal  friend  and  kind  patron 

*  In  one  of  his  sonnets  he  says: 

O,  for  my  sake  do  you  with  fortune  chide 

The  guilty  goddess  of  my  harmless  deeds, 
That  did  not  better  for  my  life  provide 

Than  public  means  which  public  manners  breeds. 
And  in  the  following: 

Your  love  and  pity  doth  the  impression  fill, 
Which  vulgar  scandal  stamp'd  upon  my  brow. 


LECTURES  ON  DRAMATIC  ART  89 

in  the  Earl  of  Southampton,  the  friend  of  the  unfortunate 
Essex.  His  pieces  were  not  only  the  delight  of  the  great 
public,  but  also  in  great  favor  at  court;  the  two  monarchs 
under  whose  reigns  he  wrote  were,  according  to  the  testi- 
mony of  a  contemporary,  quite  '^  taken  "  w^ith  him.*  Many 
plays  were  acted  at  court ;  and  Elizabeth  appears  herself  to 
have  commanded  the  writing  of  more  than  one  to  be  acted  at 
her  court  festivals.  King  James,  it  is  well  known,  honored 
Shakespeare  so  far  as  to  write  to  him  with  his  own  hand. 
All  this  looks  very  unlike  either  contempt  or  banishment 
into  the  obscurity  of  a  low  circle.  By  his  labors  as  a 
poet,  player,  and  stage-manager,  Shakespeare  acquired  a 
considerable  property,  which,  in  the  last  years  of  his  too 
short  life,  he  enjoyed  in  his  native  town  in  retirement  and 
in  the  society  of  a  beloved  daughter.  Immediately  after 
his  death  a  monument  was  erected  over  his  grave,  which 
may  be  considered  sumptuous  for  those  times. 

In  the  midst  of  such  brilliant  success,  and  with  such  dis- 
tinguished proofs  of  respect  and  honor  from  his  contempo- 
raries, it  would  be  singular  indeed  if  Shakespeare,  notwith- 
standing the  modesty  of  a  great  mind,  which  he  certainly 
possessed  in  a  peculiar  degree,  should  never  have  dreamed 
of  posthumous  fame.  As  a  profound  thinker  he  had  quite 
accurately  taken  the  measure  of  the  circle  of  human  capa- 
bilities, and  he  could  say  to  himself  with  confidence  that 
many  of  his  productions  would  not  easily  be  surpassed.  What 
foundation  then  is  there  for  the  contrary  assertion,  which 
would  degrade  the  immortal  artist  to  the  situation  of  a  daily 
laborer  for  a  rude  multitude  1  Merely  this,  that  he  himself 
published  no  edition  of  his  whole  works.  We  do  not  reflect 
that  a  poet,  always  accustomed  to  labor  immediately  for  the 
stage,  who  has  often  enjoyed  the  triumph  of  overpowering 
assembled  crowds  of  spectators  and  drawing  from  them 
the  most  tumultuous  applause,  who  the  while  was  not  de- 


*  Ben  Jonson : 

And  make  those  flights  upon  the  banks  of  Thames, 
That  so  did  take  Eliza  and  our  James! 


90  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

pendent  on  the  caprice  of  crotchety  stage  directors,  but 
left  to  his  own  discretion  to  select  and  determine  the  mode 
of  theatrical  representation,  naturally  cares  much  less  for 
the  closet  of  the  solitary  reader.  During  the  first  formation 
of  a  national  theatre,  more  especially,  we  find  frequent  ex- 
amples of  such  indifference.  Of  the  almost  innumerable 
pieces  of  Lope  de  Vega,  many  undoubtedly  were  never 
printed,  and  are  consequently  lost;  and  Cervantes  did  not 
print  his  earlier  dramas,  though  he  certainly  boasts  of  them 
as  meritorious  works.  As  Shakespeare,  on  his  retiring 
from  the  theatre,  left  his  manuscripts  behind  ^\dth  his 
fellow-managers,  he  may  have  relied  on  theatrical  tradition 
for  handing  them  down  to  posterity,  which  would  indeed 
have  been  sufficient  for  that  purpose  if  the  closing  of  the 
theatres,  under  the  tyrannical  intolerance  of  the  Puritans, 
had  not  interrupted  the  natural  order  of  things.  We  know, 
besides,  that  the  poets  used  then  to  sell  the  exclusive  copy- 
right of  their  pieces  to  the  theatre :  *  it  is  therefore  not 
improbable  that  the  right  of  property  in  his  unprinted 
pieces  was  no  longer  vested  in  Shakespeare,  or  had  not, 
at  least,  yet  reverted  to  him.  His  fellow-managers  entered 
on  the  publication  seven  years  after  his  death  (which 
probably  cut  short  his  own  intention),  as  it  would  appear 
on  their  own  account  and  for  their  own  advantage. 

LECTURE  XXIII 

Ignorance  or  Learning  of  Shakespeare  —  Costume  as  observed  by  Shakespeare, 
and  how  far  necessary,  or  may  be  dispensed  with  in  the  Drama  —  Shakes- 
peare the  greatest  drawer  of  Character  —  Vindication  of  the  genuineness 
of  his  pathos  —  Play  on  words  —  Moral  delicacy  —  Irony  —  Mixture  of  the 
Tragic  and  Comic  —  The  part  of  the  Fool  or  Clown  —  Shakespeare's  Lan- 
guage and  Versification. 

Our  poet's  want  of  scholarship  has  been  the  subject  of 
endless  controversy,  and  yet  it  is  surely  a  very  easy  matter 
to  decide.    Shakespeare  was  poor  in  dead  school-cram,  but 


*  This  is  perhaps  not  uncommon  still  in  some  countries.  The  Venetian 
Director  Medebach,  for  whose  company  many  of  Goldoni's  Comedies  were 
composed,  claimed  an  exclusive  right  to  them. —  Tbajjs. 


LECTURES  ON  DRAMATIC  ART  91 

he  possessed  a  rich  treasury  of  living  and  intuitive  knowl- 
edge. He  knew  a  little  Latin,  and  even  something  of 
Greek,  though  it  may  be  not  enough  to  read  with  ease  the 
writers  in  the  original.  With  modern  languages  also,  the 
French  and  Italian,  he  had,  perhaps,  but  a  superficial  ac- 
quaintance. The  general  direction  of  his  mind  was  not  to 
the  collection  of  words  but  of  facts.  With  English  books, 
whether  original  or  translated,  he  was  extensively  ac- 
quainted: we  may  safely  affirm  that  he  had  read  all  that 
his  native  language  and  literature  then  contained  that 
could  be  of  any  use  to  him  in  his  poetical  avocations.  He 
was  sufficiently  intimate  with  mythology  to  employ  it,  in 
the  only  manner  he  could  wish,  in  the  way  of  symbolical 
ornament.  He  had  formed  a  correct  notion  of  the  spirit 
of  Ancient  History,  and  more  particularly  of  that  of  the 
Romans ;  and  the  history  of  his  own  country  was  familiar 
to  him  even  in  detail.  Fortunately  for  him  it  had  not  as 
yet  been  treated  in  a  diplomatic  and  pragmatic  spirit,  but 
merely  in  the  chronicle-style;  in  other  words,  it  had  not 
yet  assumed  the  appearance  of  dry  investigations  respect- 
ing the  development  of  political  relations,  diplomatic  ne- 
gotiations, finances,  etc.,  but  exhibited  a  visible  image  of 
the  life  and  movement  of  an  age  prolific  of  great  deeds. 
Shakespeare,  moreover,  was  a  nice  observer  of  nature;  he 
knew  the  technical  language  of  mechanics  and  artisans ;  he 
seems  to  have  been  well  traveled  in  the  interior  of  his  own 
country,  while  of  others  he  inquired  diligently  of  traveled 
navigators  respecting  their  peculiarity  of  climate  and 
customs.  He  thus  became  accurately  acquainted  with  all 
the  popular  usages,  opinions,  and  traditions  which  could 
be  of  use  in  poetry. 

The  proofs  of  his  ignorance,  on  which  the  greatest  stress 
is  laid,  are  a  few  geographical  blunders  and  anachronisms. 
Because  in  a  comedy  founded  on  an  earlier  tale,  he  makes 
ships  visit  Bohemia,  he  has  been  the  subject  of  much 
laughter.  But  I  conceive  that  we  should  be  very  unjust 
toward  him,  were  we  to  conclude  that  he  did  not,  as  well 


92  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

as  ourselves,  possess  the  useful  but  by  no  means  difficult 
knowledge  that  Bohemia  is  nowhere  bounded  by  tlie  sea. 
He  could  never,  in  that  case,  have  looked  into  a  map  of 
Germany,  but  yet  describes  elsewhere,  with  great  accuracy, 
the  maps  of  both  Indies,  together  with  the  discoveries  of 
the  latest  navigators.*  In  such  matters  Shakespeare  is 
faithful  only  to  the  details  of  the  domestic  stories.  In  the 
novels  on  which  he  worked,  he  avoided  disturbing  the  as- 
sociations of  his  audience,  to  whom  they  were  known,  by 
novelties  —  the  correction  of  errors  in  secondary  and  un- 
important particulars.  The  more  wonderful  the  story, 
the  more  it  ranged  in  a  purely  poetical  region,  which  he 
transfers  at  will  to  an  indefinite  distance.  These  plays, 
whatever  names  they  bear,  take  place  in  the  true  land  of 
romance  and  in  the  very  century  of  wonderful  love  stories. 
He  knew  well  that  in  the  forest  of  Ardennes  there  were 
neither  the  lions  and  serpents  of  the  torrid  zone,  nor  the 
shepherdesses  of  Arcadia;  but  he  transferred  both  to  it,t 
because  the  design  and  import  of  his  picture  required 
them.  Here  he  considered  himself  entitled  to  take  the 
greatest  liberties.  He  had  not  to  do  with  a  hair-splitting, 
hypercritical  age  like  ours,  which  is  always  seeking  in 
poetry  for  something  else  than  poetry;  his  audience  en- 
tered the  theatre,  not  to  learn  true  chronology,  geography, 
and  natural  history,  but  to  witness  a  vivid  exhibition.  I 
will  undertake  to  prove  that  Shakespeare's  anachronisms 
are,  for  the  most  part,  committed  of  set  purpose  and  de- 
liberately. It  was  frequently  of  importance  to  him  to  move 
the  exhibited  subjects  out  of  the  background  of  time  and 
bring  it  quite  near  us.  Hence  in  Hamlet,  though  avowedly 
an  old  Northern  story,  there  runs  a  tone  of  modish  society, 
and  in  every  respect  the  customs  of  the  most  recent  period. 
"Without  those  circumstantialities  it  would  not  have  been 
allowable  to  make  a  philosophical  inquirer  of  Hamlet,  on 
which  trait,  however,  the  meaning  of  the  whole  is  made  to 


*  Twelfth  Nipht,  or  What  You  Will  —  Act  iii.,  scene  2. 
t  As  You  Like  It. 


LECTUEES  ON  DRAMATIC  ART  93 

rest.  On  that  account  he  mentions  his  education  at  a 
university,  though,  in  the  age  of  the  true  Hamlet  of  history, 
universities  were  not  in  existence.  He  makes  him  study 
at  Wittenberg,  and  no  selection  of  a  place  could  have  been 
more  suitable.  The  name  was  very  popular:  the  story 
of  Dr.  Faustus  of  Wittenberg  had  made  it  well  known;  it 
was  of  particular  celebrity  in  Protestant  England,  as 
Luther  had  taught  and  written  there  shortly  before,  and 
the  very  name  must  have  immediately  suggested  the  idea 
of  freedom  in  thinking.  I  cannot  even  consider  it  an 
anachronism  that  Richard  the  Third  should  speak  of  Mac- 
hiavelli.  The  word  is  here  used  altogether  proverbially: 
the  contents,  at  least,  of  the  book  entitled  Of  the  Prince 
(Del  Principe)  have  been  in  existence  ever  since  the 
existence  of  tyrants;  Machiavelli  was  merely  the  first  to 
commit  them  to  writing. 

That  Shakespeare  has  accurately  hit  the  essential  cus- 
tom, namely,  the  spirit  of  ages  and  nations,  is  at  least 
acknowledged  generally  by  the  English  critics;  but  many 
sins  against  external  costume  may  be  easily  remarked.  Yet 
here  it  is  necessary  to  bear  in  mind  that  the  Roman  pieces 
were  acted  upon  the  stage  of  that  day  in  the  European 
dress.  This  was,  it  is  true,  still  grand  and  splendid,  not 
so  silly  and  tasteless  as  it  became  toward  the  end  of  the 
seventeenth  century.  (Brutus  and  Cassius  appeared  in 
the  Spanish  cloak ;  they  wore,  quite  contrary  to  the  Roman 
custom,  the  sword  by  their  side  in  time  of  peace,  and,  ac- 
cording to  the  testimony  of  an  eye  witness,*  it  was,  in  the 
dialogue  where  Brutus  stimulates  Cassius  to  the  con- 
spiracy, drawn,  as  if  involuntarily,  half  out  of  the  sheath). 
This  does  in  no  way  agree  with  our  way  of  thinking:  we  are 
not  content  without  the  toga. 

The  present,  perhaps,  is  not  an  inappropriate  place 
for  a  few  general   observations   on  costume,   considered 


In  one  of  the  commendatory  poems  in  the  first  folio  edition : 
And  on  the  stage  at  half  sword  parley  were 
Brutus  and  Cassius. 


94  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

with  reference  to  art.  It  has  never  been  more  accu- 
rately observed  than  in  the  present  day;  art  has  become 
a  slop-shop  for  pedantic  antiquities.  This  is  because  we 
live  in  a  learned  and  critical,  but  by  no  means  poetical 
age.  The  ancients  before  us  used,  when  they  had  to 
represent  the  religions  of  other  nations  which  deviated 
very  much  from  their  own,  to  bring  them  into  conformity 
with  the  Greek  mythology.  In  Sculpture,  again,  the  same 
dress,  namely,  the  Phrygian,  was  adopted,  once  for  all, 
for  every  barbaric  tribe.  Not  that  they  did  not  know  that 
there  were  as  many  different  dresses  as  nations ;  but  in  art 
they  merely  wished  to  acknowledge  the  great  contrast  be- 
tween barbarian  and  civilized :  and  this,  they  thought,  was 
rendered  most  strikingly  apparent  in  the  Phrygian  garb. 
The  earlier  Christian  painters  represent  the  Savior,  the 
Virgin  Mary,  the  Patriarchs,  and  the  Apostles  in  an  ideal 
dress,  but  the  subordinate  actors  or  spectators  of  the 
action  in  the  dresses  of  their  o^\ti  nation  and  age.  Here 
they  were  guided  by  a  correct  feeling :  the  mysterious  and 
sacred  ought  to  be  kept  at  an  awe-inspiring  distance,  but 
the  human  cannot  be  rightly  understood  if  seen  without  its 
usual  accompaniments.  In  the  middle  ages  all  heroical 
stories  of  antiquity,  from  Theseus  and  Achilles  down  to 
Alexander,  were  metamorphosed  into  true  tales  of  chivalry. 
What  was  related  to  themselves  spoke  alone  an  intelligible 
language  to  them;  of  differences  and  distinctions  they  did 
not  care  to  know.  In  an  old  manuscript  of  the  Iliad,  I  saw 
a  miniature  illumination  representing  Hector 's  funeral  pro- 
cession, where  the  cofiSn  is  hung  with  noble  coats  of  arms 
and  carried  into  a  Gothic  church.  It  is  easy  to  make  merry 
with  this  piece  of  simplicity,  but  a  reflecting  mind  will  see 
the  subject  in  a  very  different  light.  A  powerful  con- 
sciousness of  the  universal  validity  and  the  solid  per- 
manency of  their  own  manner  of  being,  an  undoubting  con- 
viction that  it  has  always  so  been  and  will  ever  continue 
so  to  be  in  the  world  —  these  feelings  of  our  ancestors  were 
symptoms  of  a  fresh  fulness  of  life ;  they  were  the  marrow 


LECTUEES  ON  DRAMATIC  ART  95 

of  action  in  reality  as  well  as  in  fiction.  Their  plain  and 
affectionate  attachment  to  everything  around  them,  handed 
down  from  their  fathers,  is  by  no  means  to  be  confounded 
with  the  obstreperous  conceit  of  ages  of  mannerism,  for 
they,  out  of  vanity,  introduce  the  fleeting  modes  and  fashion 
of  the  day  into  art,  because  to  them  everything  like  noble 
simplicity  seems  boorish  and  rude.  The  latter  impropriety 
is  now  abolished:  but,  on  the  other  hand,  our  poets  and 
artists,  if  they  would  hope  for  our  approbation,  must,  like 
servants,  wear  the  livery  of  distant  centuries  and  foreign 
nations.  We  are  everywhere  at  home  except  at  home. 
We  do  ourselves  the  justice  to  allow  that  the  present  mode 
of  dressing,  forms  of  politeness,  etc.,  are  altogether  un- 
poetical,  and  art  is  therefore  obliged  to  beg,  as  an  alms, 
a  poetical  costume  from  the  antiquaries.  To  that  simple 
way  of  thinking,  which  is  merely  attentive  to  the  inward 
truth  of  the  composition,  without  stumbling  at  anachron- 
isms or  other  external  inconsistencies,  we  cannot,  alas! 
now  return ;  but  we  must  envy  the  poets  to  whom  it  offered 
itself ;  it  allowed  them  a  great  breadth  and  freedom  in  the 
handling  of  their  subject. 

Many  things  in  Shakespeare  must  be  judged  of  according 
to  the  above  principles,  respecting  the  difference  between 
the  essential  and  the  merely  learned  costume.  They  will 
also  in  their  measure  admit  of  an  application  to  Calderon. 

So  much  with  respect  to  the  spirit  of  the  age  in  which 
Shakespeare  lived,  and  his  peculiar  mental  culture  and 
knowledge.  To  me  he  appears  a  profound  artist,  and  not 
a  blind  and  wildly  luxuriant  genius.  I  consider,  generally 
speaking,  all  that  has  been  said  on  the  subject  a  mere  fable, 
a  blind  and  extravagant  error.  In  other  arts  the  assertion 
refutes  itself;  for  in  them  acquired  knowledge  is  an  indis- 
pensable condition  of  clever  execution.  But  even  in  such 
poets  as  are  usually  given  out  as  careless  pupils  of  nature, 
devoid  of  art  or  school  discipline,  I  have  always  found,  on 
a  nearer  consideration  of  the  works  of  real  excellence  they 
may  have  produced,  even  a  high  cultivation  of  the  mental 


96  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

powers,  practice  in  art,  and  views  both  worthy  in  them- 
selves and  maturely  considered.  This  applies  to  Homer 
as  well  as  to  Dante.  The  activity  of  genius  is,  it  is  true, 
natural  to  it,  and,  in  a  certain  sense,  unconscious ;  and,  con- 
sequently, the  person  who  possesses  it  is  not  always  at  the 
moment  able  to  render  an  account  of  the  course  which  he 
may  have  pursued;  but  it  by  no  means  follows  that  the 
thinking  power  had  not  a  great  share  in  it.  It  is  from  the 
very  rapidity  and  certainty  of  the  mental  process,  from  the 
utmost  clearness  of  understanding,  that  thinking  in  a  poet 
is  not  perceived  as  something  abstracted,  does  not  wear  the 
appearance  of  reflex  meditation.  That  notion  of  poetical 
inspiration,  which  many  lyrical  poets  have  brought  into 
circulation,  as  if  they  were  not  in  their  senses,  and,  like 
Pythia  when  possessed  by  the  divinity,  delivered  oracles 
unintelligible  to  themselves  —  this  notion  (a  mere  lyrical 
invention)  is  least  of  all  applicable  to  dramatic  composi- 
tion, one  of  the  most  thoughtful  productions  of  the  human 
mind.  It  is  admitted  that  Shakespeare  has  reflected,  and 
deeply  reflected,  on  character  and  passion,  on  the  progress 
of  events  and  human  destinies,  on  the  human  constitution, 
on  all  the  things  and  relations  of  the  world;  this  is  an 
admission  which  must  be  made,  for  one  alone  of  thousands 
of  his  maxims  would  be  a  sufficient  refutation  of  any  who 
should  attempt  to  deny  it.  So  that  it  was  only  for  the 
structure  of  his  own  pieces  that  he  had  no  thought  to  spare  ? 
This  he  left  to  the  dominion  of  chance,  which  blew  together 
the  atoms  of  Epicurus.  But  supposing  that,  devoid  of  any 
higher  ambition  to  approve  himself  to  judicious  critics  and 
posterity,  and  wanting  in  that  love  of  art  which  longs  for 
self-satisfaction  in  the  perfection  of  its  works,  he  had 
merely  labored  to  please  the  unlettered  crowd;  still  this 
very  object  alone  and  the  pursuit  of  theatrical  effect  would 
have  led  him  to  bestow  attention  to  the  structure  and 
adherence  of  his  pieces.  For  does  not  the  impression  of 
a  drama  depend  in  an  especial  manner  on  the  relation  of 
the  parts  to  one  another?    And,  however  beautiful  a  scene 


LECTURES  ON  DRAMATIC  ART  97 

may  be  in  itself,  if  yet  it  be  at  variance  with  what  the 
spectators  have  been  led  to  expect  in  its  particular  place, 
so  as  to  destroy  the  interest  which  they  had  hitherto  felt, 
will  it  not  be  at  once  reprobated  by  all  who  possess  plain 
common  sense  and  give  themselves  up  to  nature?  The 
comic  intermixtures  may  be  considered  merely  as  a  sort  of 
interlude,  designed  to  relieve  the  straining  of  the  mind 
after  the  stretch  of  the  more  serious  parts,  so  long  as  no 
better  purpose  can  be  found  in  them ;  but  in  the  progress  of 
the  main  action,  in  the  concatenation  of  the  events,  the  poet 
must,  if  possible,  display  even  more  expenditure  of  thought 
than  in  the  composition  of  individual  character  and  situa- 
tions, otherwise  he  would  be  like  the  conductor  of  a  puppet- 
show  who  has  so  entangled  his  wires  that  the  puppets 
receive  from  their  mechanism  quite  different  movements 
from  those  which  he  actually  intended. 

The  English  critics  are  unanimous  in  their  praise  of  the 
truth  and  uniform  consistency  of  his  characters,  of  his 
heartrending  pathos,  and  his  comic  wit.  Moreover,  they 
extol  the  beauty  and  sublimity  of  his  separate  descriptions, 
images,  and  expressions.  This  last  is  the  most  superficial 
and  cheap  mode  of  criticising  works  of  art.  Johnson  com- 
pares him  who  should  endeavor  to  recommend  this  poet 
by  passages  unconnectedly  torn  from  his  works,  to  the 
pedant  in  Hierocles,  who  exhibited  a  brick  as  a  sample  of 
his  house.  And  yet  how  little,  and  how  very  unsatisfac- 
torily does  he  himself  speak  of  the  pieces  considered  as  a 
whole!  Let  any  man,  for  instance,  bring  together  the 
short  characters  which  he  gives  at  the  close  of  each  play, 
and  see  if  the  aggregate  will  amount  to  that  sum  of  admira- 
tion which  he  himself,  at  his  outset,  has  stated  as  the  cor- 
rect standard  for  the  appreciation  of  the  poet.  It  was, 
generally  speaking,  the  prevailing  tendency  of  the  time 
which  preceded  our  own,  and  which  has  showed  itself  par- 
ticularly in  physical  science,  to  consider  everything  having 
life  as  a  mere  accumulation  of  dead  parts,  to  separate  what 
exists  only  in  connection  and  cannot  otherwise  be  conceived, 

Vol.  IV— 7 


98  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

instead  of  penetrating  to  the  central  point  and  viewing  all 
the  parts  as  so  many  irradiations  from  it.  Hence  nothing 
is  so  rare  as  a  critic  who  can  elevate  himself  to  the  com- 
prehensive contemplation  of  a  work  of  art.  Shakespeare 's 
compositions,  from  the  very  depth  of  purpose  displayed  in 
them,  have  been  especially  liable  to  the  misfortune  of  being 
misunderstood.  Besides,  this  prosaic  species  of  criticism 
requires  always  that  the  poetic  form  should  be  applied  to 
the  details  of  execution ;  but  when  the  plan  of  the  piece  is 
concerned,  it  never  looks  for  more  than  the  logical  con- 
nection of  causes  and  effects,  or  some  partial  and  trite 
moral  by  w^ay  of  application ;  and  all  that  cannot  be  recon- 
ciled therew^ith  is  declared  superfluous,  or  even  a  pernicious 
appendage.  On  these  principles  w^e  must  even  strike  out 
from  the  Greek  tragedies  most  of  the  choral  songs,  which 
also  contribute  nothing  to  the  development  of  the  action, 
but  are  merely  an  harmonious  echo  of  the  impressions  the 
poet  aims  at  conveying.  In  this  they  altogether  mistake 
the  rights  of  poetry  and  the  nature  of  the  romantic  drama, 
which,  for  the  very  reason  that  it  is  and  ought  to  be  pic- 
turesque, requires  richer  accompaniments  and  contrasts  for 
its  main  groups.  In  all  Art  and  Poetry,  but  more  especially 
in  the  romantic,  the  Fancy  lays  claims  to  be  considered  as 
an  independent  mental  power  governed  according  to  its 
own  laws. 

In  an  essay  on  Romeo  and  Juliet*  written  a  number  of 
years  ago,  I  went  through  the  wiiole  of  the  scenes  in  their 
order  and  demonstrated  the  inward  necessity  of  each  with 
reference  to  the  whole;  I  showed  why  such  a  particular 
circle  of  characters  and  relations  was  placed  around  the 
two  lovers ;  I  explained  the  signification  of  the  mirth  here 
and  there  scattered,  and  justified  the  use  of  the  occasional 
heightening  given  to  the  poetical  colors.  From  all  this  it 
seemed  to  follow  unquestionably  that,  with  the  exception 


*  In  the  first  volume  of  Charakteriatiken  und  Kritiken,  published  by  my 
brother  and  myself. 


LECTURES  ON  DRAMATIC  ART  99 

of  a  few  criticisms,  now  become  unintelligible  or  foreign 
to  the  present  taste  (imitations  of  the  tone  of  society  of 
that  day),  nothing  could  be  taken  away,  nothing  added, 
nothing  othermse  arranged,  without  mutilating  and  dis- 
figuring the  perfect  work.  I  would  readily  undertake  to 
do  the  same  for  all  the  pieces  of  Shakespeare's  maturer 
years,  but  to  do  this  would  require  a  separate  book.  Here 
I  am  reduced  to  confine  my  observations  to  tracing  liis 
great  designs  with  a  rapid  pencil;  but  still  I  must  previ- 
ously be  allowed  to  deliver  my  sentiments  in  a  general 
manner  on  the  subject  of  his  most  eminent  peculiarities. 

Shakespeare's  knowledge  of  mankind  has  become  pro- 
verbial :  in  this  his  superiority  is  so  great  that  he  has  justly 
been  called  the  master  of  the  human  heart.  A  readiness  to 
remark  the  mind's  fainter  and  involuntary  utterances,  and 
the  power  to  express  with  certainty  the  meaning  of  these 
signs,  as  determined  by  experience  and  reflection,  consti- 
tute ' '  the  observer  of  men ;  ' '  but  tacitly  to  draw  from 
these  still  further  conclusions  and  to  arrange  the  separate 
observations  according  to  grounds  of  probability  into  a 
just  and  valid  combination  —  this,  it  may  be  said,  is  to  know 
men.  The  distinguishing  property  of  the  dramatic  poet 
who  is  great  in  characterization,  is  something  altogether 
different  here,  and  which,  take  it  which  way  we  will,  either 
includes  in  it  this  readiness  and  this  acuteness,  or  dispenses 
with  both.  It  is  the  capability  of  transporting  himself  so 
completely  into  every  situation,  even  the  most  unusual,  that 
he  is  enabled,  as  plenipotentiary  of  the  whole  human  race, 
without  particular  instructions  for  each  separate  case,  to 
act  and  speak  in  the  name  of  every  individual.  It  is  the 
power  of  endowing  the  creatures  of  his  imagination  with 
such  self -existent  energy  that  they  afterward  act  in  each 
conjuncture  according  to  general  laws  of  nature :  the  poet, 
in  his  dreams,  institutes,  as  it  were,  experiments  which  are 
received  with  as  much  authority  as  if  they  had  been  made 
on  waking  objects.  The  inconceivable  element  herein, 
and  what  moreover  can  never  be  learned,  is,  that  the  char- 


100  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

acters  appear  neither  to  do  nor  to  say  anything  on  the 
spectator's  account  merely;  and  yet  that  the  poet,  simply 
by  means  of  the  exhibition,  and  without  any  subsidiary 
explanation,  communicates  to  his  audience  the  gift  of  look- 
ing into  the  inmost  recesses  of  their  minds.  Hence  Goethe 
has  ingeniously  compared  Shakespeare's  characters  to 
watches  with  crystalline  plates  and  cases,  which,  while  they 
point  out  the  hours  as  correctly  as  other  watches,  enable 
us  at  the  same  time  to  perceive  the  inward  springs  whereby 
all  this  is  accomplished. 

Nothing,  however,  is  more  foreign  to  Shakespeare  than  a 
certain  anatomical  style  of  exhibition,  which  laboriously 
enumerates  all  the  motives  by  which  a  man  is  determined 
to  act  in  this  or  that  particular  manner.  This  rage  of  sup- 
plying motives,  the  mania  of  so  many  modern  historians, 
might  be  carried  at  length  to  an  extent  which  would  abolish 
everything  like  individuality,  and  resolve  all  character  into 
nothing  but  the  effect  of  foreign  or  external  influences, 
w^hereas  we  know  that  it  often  announces  itself  most  decid- 
edly in  earliest  infancy.  After  all,  a  man  acts  so  because 
he  is  so.  And  what  each  man  is,  that  Shakespeare  reveals 
to  us  most  immediately :  he  demands  and  obtains  our  belief 
even  for  what  is  singular,  and  deviates  from  the  ordinary 
course  of  nature.  Never  perhaps  was  there  so  comprehen- 
sive a  talent  for  characterization  as  Shakespeare.  It  not 
only  grasps  every  diversity  of  rank,  age,  and  sex,  down  to 
the  lispings  of  infancy ;  not  only  do  the  king  and  the  beggar, 
the  hero  and  the  pickpocket,  the  sage  and  the  idiot,  speak 
and  act  with  equal  truthfulness ;  not  only  does  he  transport 
hunself  to  distant  ages  and  foreign  nations,  and  portray 
with  the  greatest  accuracy  (a  few  apparent  violations  of 
costume  excepted)  the  spirit  of  the  ancient  Romans,  of  the 
-  French  in  the  wars  with  the  English,  of  the  English  them- 
selves during  a  great  part  of  their  history,  of  the  Southern 
Europeans  (in  the  serious  part  of  many  comedies),  the 
cultivated  society  of  the  day,  and  the  rude  barbarism  of 
a  Norman  fore-time;  his  human  characters  have  not  only 


LECTURES  ON  DRAMATIC  ART  101 

such  depth  and  individuality  that  they  do  not  admit  of 
being  classed  under  common  names,  and  are  inexhaustible 
even  in  conception:  no,  this  Prometheus  not  merely  forms 
men,  he  opens  the  gates  of  the  magical  world  of  spirits, 
calls  up  the  midnight  ghost,  exhibits  before  us  the  witches 
with  their  unhallowed  rites,  peoples  the  air  with  sportive 
fairies  and  sylphs;  and  these  beings,  though  existing  only 
in  the  imagination,  nevertheless  possess  such  truth  and 
consistency  that  even  with  such  misshapen  abortions  as 
Caliban,  he  extorts  the  assenting  conviction  that,  were 
there  such  beings,  they  would  so  conduct  themselves.  In  a 
word,  as  he  carries  a  bold  and  pregnant  fancy  into  the  king- 
dom of  nature,  on  the  other  hand  he  carries  nature  into  the 
region  of  fancy  which  lie  beyond  the  confines  of  reality. 
We  are  lost  in  astonishment  at  the  close  intimacy  he  brings 
us  into  with  the  extraordinary,  the  wonderful,  and  the 
unheard-of. 

Pope  and  Johnson  appear  strangely  to  contradict  each 
other,  when  the  first  says,  ''  all  the  characters  of  Shakes- 
peare are  individuals, ' '  and  the  second, ' '  they  are  species. ' ' 
And  yet  perhaps  these  opinions  may  admit  of  reconcilia- 
tion. Pope's  expression  is  unquestionably  the  more  cor- 
rect. A  character  which  should  be  merely  a  personification 
of  a  naked  general  idea  could  neither  exhibit  any  great 
depth  nor  any  great  variety.  The  names  of  genera  and 
species  are  well  known  to  be  merely  auxiliaries  for  the 
understanding,  that  we  may  embrace  the  infinite  variety 
of  nature  in  a  certain  order.  The  characters  which  Shakes- 
peare has  so  thoroughly  delineated  have  undoubtedly  a 
number  of  individual  peculiarities,  but  at  the  same  time 
they  possess  a  significance  which  is  not  applicable  to  them 
alone:  they  generally  supply  materials  for  a  profound 
theory  of  their  most  prominent  and  distinguishing  prop- 
erty. But  even  with  the  above  correction,  this  opinion 
must  still  have  its  limitations.  Characterization  is  merely 
one  ingredient  of  the  dramatic  art,  and  not  dramatic  poetry 
itself.     It  would  be  improper  in  the  extreme,  if  the  poet 


102  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

were  to  draw  our  attention  to  superfluous  traits  of  char- 
acter at  a  time  when  it  ought  to  be  his  endeavor  to  produce 
other  impressions.  Whenever  the  musical  or  the  fanciful 
preponderates,  the  characteristical  necessarily  falls  into 
the  background.  Hence  many  of  the  figures  of  Shakes- 
peare exhibit  merely  external  designations,  determined  by 
the  place  which  they  occupy  in  the  whole:  they  are  like 
secondary  persons  in  a  public  procession,  to  whose  physiog- 
nomy we  seldom  pay  much  attention;  their  only  importance 
is  derived  from  the  solemnity  of  their  dress  and  the  duty 
in  which  they  are  engaged.  Shakespeare's  messengers, 
for  instance,  are  for  the  most  part  mere  messengers,  and 
yet  not  common,  but  poetical  messengers:  the  message 
which  they  have  to  bring  is  the  soul  which  suggests  to  them 
their  language.  Other  voices,  too,  are  merely  raised  to 
pour  forth  these  as  melodious  lamentations  or  rejoicings, 
or  to  dwell  in  reflection  on  what  has  taken  place ;  and  in  a 
serious  drama  without  chorus  this  must  always  be  more 
or  less  the  case,  if  we  would  not  have  it  prosaic. 

If  Shakespeare  deserves  our  admiration  for  his  char- 
acters, he  is  equally  deserving  of  it  for  his  exhibition  of 
passion,  taking  this  word  in  its  widest  signification,  as 
including  every  mental  condition,  every  tone,  from  indiffer- 
ence or  familiar  mirth  to  the  wildest  rage  and  despair.  He 
gives  us  the  history  of  minds ;  he  lays  open  to  us,  in  a  single 
word,  a  whole  series  of  their  anterior  states.  His  passions 
do  not  stand  at  the  same  height,  from  first  to  last,  as  is  the 
case  with  so  many  tragic  poets,  who,  in  the  language  of 
Lessing,  are  thorough  masters  of  the  legal  style  of  love. 
He  paints,  with  inimitable  veracity,  the  gradual  advance 
from  the  first  origin;  *Mie  gives,"  as  Lessing  says,  *' a 
living  picture  of  all  the  slight  and  secret  artifices  by  which 
a  feeling  steals  into  our  souls,  of  all  the  imperceptible 
advantages  which  it  there  gains,  of  all  the  stratagems  by 
which  it  makes  every  other  passion  subservient  to  itself,  till 
it  becomes  the  sole  tyrant  of  our  desires  and  our  aversions. ' ' 
Of  all  the  poets,  perhaps,  he  alone  has  portrayed  the  mental 


LECTURES  ON  DRAMATIC  ART  103 

diseases,  melancholy,  delirium,  lunacy,  with  such  inexpres- 
sible and,  in  every  respect,  definite  truth,  that  the  physician 
may  enrich  his  observations  from  them  in  the  same  manner 
as  from  real  cases. 

And  yet  Johnson  has  objected  to  Shakespeare  that  his 
pathos  is  not  always  natural  and  free  from  affectation. 
There  are,  it  is  true,  passages,  though  comparatively  speak- 
ing very  few,  where  his  poetry  exceeds  the  bounds  of  actual 
dialogue,  where  a  too  soaring  imagination,  a  too  luxuriant 
wit,  rendered  a  complete  dramatic  forgetfulness  of  himself 
impossible.  With  this  exception,  the  censure  originated 
in  a  fanciless  way  of  thinking,  to  which  everything  appears 
unnatural  that  does  not  consort  with  its  own  tame  in- 
sipidity. Hence  an  idea  has  been  formed  of  simple  and 
natural  pathos,  which  consists  in  exclamations  destitute  of 
imagery  and  nowise  elevated  above  everyday  life.  But 
energetical  passions  electrify  all  the  mental  powers,  and 
will  consequently,  in  highly-favored  natures,  give  utterance 
to  themselves  in  ingenious  and  figurative  expressions.  It 
has  been  often  remarked  that  indignation  makes  a  man 
witty;  and  as  despair  occasionally  breaks  out  into  laughter, 
it  may  sometimes  also  give  vent  to  itself  in  antithetical 
comparisons. 

Besides,  the  rights  of  the  poetical  form  have  not  been 
duly  weighed.  Shakespeare,  who  was  always  sure  of  his 
power  to  excite,  when  he  wished,  sufficiently  powerful  emo- 
tions, has  occasionally,  by  indulging  in  a  freer  play  of 
fancy,  purposely  tempered  the  impressions  when  too  pain- 
ful, and  immediately  introduced  a  musical  softening  of  our 
sympathy.*  He  had  not  those  rude  ideas  of  his  art  which 
many  moderns  seem  to  have,  as  if  the  poet,  like  the  clown 
in  the  proverb,  must  strike  twice  on  the  same  place.  An 
ancient  rhetorician  delivered  a  caution  against  dwelling 

*  A  contemporary   of  the  poet,   the   author   of   the   already-noticed   poem, 
(subscribed  I.  M.  S.)>  tenderly  felt  this  when  he  said: 
Yet  so  to  temper   passion  that  our  ears 
Take  pleasure  in  their  pain,  and  eyes  in  tears 
Both  smile  and  weep. 


104  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

too  long  on  the  excitation  of  pity ;  for  nothing,  he  said,  dries 
so  soon  as  tears;  and  Shakespeare  acted  conformably  to 
this  ingenious  maxim  without  having  learned  it.  The  para- 
doxical assertion  of  Johnson  that  ''  Shakespeare  had  a 
greater  talent  for  comedy  than  tragedy,  and  that  in  the 
latter  he  has  frequently  displayed  an  affected  tone,"  is 
scarcely  deserving  of  lengthy  notice.  For  its  refutation, 
it  is  unnecessary  to  appeal  to  the  great  tragical  compo- 
sitions of  the  poet,  which,  for  overpowering  effect,  leave 
far  behind  them  almost  everything  that  the  stage  has  seen 
besides ;  a  few  of  their  less  celebrated  scenes  would  be  quite 
sufficient.  What  to  many  readers  might  lend  an  appear- 
ance of  truth  to  this  assertion  are  the  verbal  witticisms,  that 
playing  upon  words,  which  Shakespeare  not  unfrequently 
introduces  into  serious  and  sublime  passages  and  even  into 
those  also  of  a  peculiarly  pathetic  nature. 

I  have  already  stated  the  point  of  view  in  which  we  ought 
to  consider  this  sportive  play  upon  words.  I  shall  here, 
therefore,  merely  deliver  a  few  observations  respecting  the 
playing  upon  words  in  general,  and  its  poetical  use.  A 
thorough  investigation  would  lead  us  too  far  from  our  sub- 
ject, and  too  deeply  into  considerations  on  the  essence  of 
language,  and  its  relation  to  poetry,  or  rhyme,  etc. 

There  is  in  the  human  mind  a  desire  that  language  should 
exhibit  the  object  which  it  denotes,  sensibly,  by  its  very 
sound,  which  may  be  traced  even  as  far  back  as  in  the  first 
origin  of  poetry.  As,  in  the  shape  in  which  language  comes 
down  to  us,  this  is  seldom  perceptibly  the  case,  an  imagina- 
tion which  has  been  powerfully  excited  is  fond  of  laying 
hold  of  any  congruity  in  sound  which  may  accidentally  offer 
itself,  that  by  such  means  he  may,  for  the  nonce,  restore 
the  lost  resemblance  between  the  word  and  the  thing.  For 
example,  how  common  was  it  and  is  it  to  seek  in  the  name 
of  a  person,  however  arbitrarily  bestowed,  a  reference  to 
his  qualities  and  fortunes  —  to  convert  it  purposely  into  a 
significant  name.  Those  who  cry  out  against  the  play  upon 
words  as  an  unnatural  and  affected  invention,  only  betray 


LECTURES  ON  DRAMATIC  ART  105 

their  own  ignorance  of  original  nature.  A  great  fondness 
for  it  is  always  evinced  among  children,  as  well  as  w^ith 
nations  of  simple  manners,  among  w^hom  correct  ideas  of 
the  derivation  and  affinity  of  words  have  not  yet  been  devel- 
oped, and  do  not,  consequently,  stand  in  the  way  of  this 
caprice.  In  Homer  we  find  several  examples  of  it;  the 
Books  of  Moses,  the  oldest  written  memorial  of  the  primi- 
tive world,  are,  as  is  well  known,  full  of  them.  On  the  other 
hand,  poets  of  a  very  cultivated  taste,  like  Petrarch,  or 
orators,  like  Cicero,  have  delighted  in  them.  Wlioever,  in 
Richard  the  Second,  is  disgusted  with  the  affecting  play  of 
words  of  the  dying  John  of  Gaunt  on  his  own  name,  should 
remember  that  the  same  thing  occurs  in  the  Ajax  of 
Sophocles.  We  do  not  mean  to  say  that  all  playing  upon 
words  is  on  all  occasions  to  be  justified.  This  must  depend 
on  the  disposition  of  mind,  whether  it  will  admit  of  such  a 
play  of  fancy,  and  whether  the  sallies,  comparisons,  and 
allusions,  which  lie  at  the  bottom  of  them,  possess  internal 
solidity.  Yet  we  must  not  proceed  upon  the  principle  of 
trying  how  the  thought  appears  after  it  is  deprived  of  the 
resemblance  in  sound,  any  more  than  we  are  to  endeavor  to 
feel  the  charm  of  rhymed  versification  after  depriving  it 
of  its  rhjTue.  The  laws  of  good  taste  on  this  subject  must, 
moreover,  vary  with  the  quality  of  the  languages.  In  those 
which  possess  a  great  number  of  homonjines,  that  is,  words 
possessing  the  same,  or  nearly  the  same,  sound,  though 
quite  different  in  their  derivation  and  signification,  it  is 
almost  more  difficult  to  avoid,  than  to  fall  on  such  a  verbal 
play.  It  has,  however,  been  feared,  lest  a  door  might  be 
opened  to  puerile  witticism,  if  they  w^ere  not  rigorously  pro- 
scribed. But  I  cannot,  for  my  part,  find  that  Shakespeare 
had  such  an  invincible  and  immoderate  passion  for  this 
verbal  witticism.  It  is  true,  he  sometimes  makes  a  most 
lavish  use  of  this  figure ;  at  others,  he  has  employed  it  very 
sparingly;  and  at  times  (for  example,  in  Macbeth)  I  do 
not  believe  a  vestige  of  it  is  to  be  found.  Hence,  in  respect 
to  the  use  or  the  rejection  of  the  play  upon  words,  he  must 


106  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

have  been  guided  by  the  measure  of  the  objects  and  the 
different  style  in  which  they  required  to  be  treated,  and 
probably  have  followed  here,  as  in  everything  else,  prin- 
ciples which,  fairly  examined,  will  bear  a  strict  examination. 
The  objection  that  Shakespeare  wounds  our  feelings  by 
the  open  display  of  the  most  disgusting  moral  odiousness, 
unmercifully  harrows  up  the  mind,  and  tortures  even  our 
eyes  by  the  exhibition  of  the  most  insupportable  and  hate- 
ful spectacles,  is  one  of  greater  and  graver  importance. 
He  has,  in  fact,  never  varnished  over  wild  and  bloodthirsty 
passions  with  a  pleasing  exterior  —  never  clothed  crime  and 
want  of  principle  with  a  false  show  of  greatness  of  soul; 
and  in  that  respect  he  is  every  waj'"  deserving  of  praise. 
Twice  he  has  portrayed  downright  villains,  and  the  mas- 
terly way  in  which  he  has  contrived  to  elude  impressions 
of  too  painful  a  nature  may  be  seen  in  lago  and  Richard 
the  Third.  I  allow  that  the  reading,  and  still  more  the 
sight,  of  some  of  his  pieces,  is  not  advisable  to  weak  nerves, 
any  more  than  was  the  Eumenides  of  ^Eschylus ;  but  is  the 
poet,  who  can  reach  an  important  object  only  by  a  bold  and 
hazardous  daring,  to  be  checked  by  considerations  for  such 
persons  ?  If  the  effeminacy  of  the  present  day  is  to  serve 
as  a  general  standard  of  what  tragical  composition  may 
properly  exhibit  to  human  nature,  we  shall  be  forced  to  set 
very  narrow  limits  indeed  to  art,  and  the  hope  of  anything 
like  powerful  effect  must  at  once  and  forever  be  renounced. 
If  we  wish  to  have  a  grand  purpose,  we  must  also  wish  to 
have  the  grand  means,  and  our  nerves  ought  in  some  meas- 
ure to  accommodate  themselves  to  painful  impressions,  if, 
by  way  of  requital,  our  mind  is  thereby  elevated  and 
strengthened.  The  constant  reference  to  a  petty  and  puny 
race  must  cripple  the  boldness  of  the  poet.  Fortunately 
for  his  art,  Shakespeare  lived  in  an  age  extremely  sus- 
ceptible of  noble  and  tender  impressions,  but  which  had 
yet  inherited  enough  of  the  firmness  of  a  vigorous  olden 
time  not  to  shrink  with  dismay  from  every  strong  and 
forcible  painting.     We  have  lived  to  see  tragedies  of  which 


LECTURES  ON  DRAMATIC  ART  107 

the  catastrophe  consists  in  the  swoon  of  an  enamored 
princess:  if  Shakespeare  falls  occasionally  into  the  oppo- 
site extreme,  it  is  a  noble  error,  originating  in  the  fulness 
of  a  gigantic  strength.  And  this  tragical  Titan,  who 
storms  the  heavens  and  threatens  to  tear  the  world  off  its 
hinges,  who,  more  terrible  than  ^schylus,  makes  our  hair 
stand  on  end  and  congeals  our  blood  with  horror,  pos- 
sessed at  the  same  time  the  insinuating  loveliness  of  the 
sweetest  poesy ;  he  toys  wdth  love  like  a  child,  and  his  songs 
die  away  on  the  ear  like  melting  sighs.  He  unites  in  his 
soul  the  utmost  elevation  and  the  utmost  depth;  and  the 
most  opposite  and  even  apparently  irreconcilable  proper- 
ties subsist  in  him  peaceably  together.  The  world  of  spirits 
and  nature  have  laid  all  their  treasures  at  his  feet:  in 
strength  a  demi-god,  in  profundity  of  view  a  prophet,  in 
all-seeing  wisdom  a  guardian  spirit  of  a  higher  order,  he 
lowers  himself  to  mortals  as  if  unconscious  of  his  supe- 
riority, and  is  as  open  and  unassuming  as  a  child. 

If  the  delineation  of  all  his  characters,  separately  con- 
sidered, is  inimitably  bold  and  correct,  he  surpasses  even 
himself  in  so  combining  and  contrasting  them  that  they 
serve  to  bring  out  one  anothers'  peculiarities.  This  is  the 
very  perfection  of  dramatic  characterization:  for  we  can 
never  estimate  a  man 's  true  worth  if  we  consider  him  alto- 
gether abstractedly  by  himself;  we  must  see  him  in  his 
relations  with  others;  and  it  is  here  that  most  dramatic 
poets  are  deficient.  Shakespeare  makes  each  of  his  prin- 
cipal characters  the  glass  in  which  the  others  are  reflected, 
and  by  like  means  enables  us  to  discover  what  could  not 
be  immediately  revealed  to  us.  "VXTiat  in  others  is  most 
profound,  is  with  him  but  surface.  Ill-advised  should  we 
be  were  we  always  to  take  men's  declarations  respecting 
themselves  and  others  for  sterling  coin.  Ambiguity  of 
design  with  much  propriety  he  makes  to  overflow  with  the 
most  praiseworthy  principles;  and  sage  maxims  are  not 
infrequently  put  in  the  mouth  of  stupidity,  to  show  how 
easily  such  commonplace  truisms  may  be  acquired.     No- 


108  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

body  ever  painted  so  truthfully  as  he  has  done  the  facility 
of  self-deception,  the  half  self-conscious  hypocrisy  toward 
ourselves,  with  which  even  noble  minds  attempt  to  disguise 
the  almost  inevitable  influence  of  selfish  motives  in  human 
nature.  This  secret  irony  of  the  characterization  com- 
mands admiration  as  the  profound  abyss  of  acuteness  and 
sagacity;  but  it  is  the  grave  of  enthusiasm.  We  arrive 
at  it  only  after  we  have  had  the  misfortune  to  see  human 
nature  through  and  through,  and  after  no  choice  remains 
but  to  adopt  the  melancholy  truth  that ' '  no  virtue  or  great- 
ness is  altogether  pure  and  genuine,"  or  the  dangerous 
error  that  ''the  highest  perfection  is  attainable."  Here 
we  therefore  may  perceive  in  the  poet  himself,  notwith- 
standing his  power  to  excite  the  most  fervent  emotions,  a 
certain  cool  indifference,  but  still  the  indifference  of  a  supe- 
rior mind,  which  has  run  through  the  whole  sphere  of 
human  existence  and  survived  feeling. 

The  irony  in  Shakespeare  has  not  merely  a  reference  to 
the  separate  characters,  but  frequently  to  the  whole  of  the 
action.  Most  poets  who  portray  human  events  in  a  narra- 
tive or  dramatic  form  themselves  take  a  part,  and  exact 
from  their  readers  a  blind  approbation  or  condemnation  of 
whatever  side  they  choose  to  support  or  oppose.  The  more 
zealous  this  rhetoric  is,  the  more  certainly  it  fails  of  its 
effect.  In  every  case  we  are  conscious  that  the  subject 
itself  is  not  brought  immediately  before  us,  but  that  we 
view  it  through  the  medium  of  a  different  way  of  thinking. 
When,  however,  by  a  dextrous  manoeuvre,  the  poet  allows 
us  an  occasional  glance  at  the  less  brilliant  reverse  of  the 
medal,  then  he  makes,  as  it  were,  a  sort  of  secret  under- 
standing with  the  select  circle  of  the  more  intelligent  of 
his  readers  or  spectators ;  he  shows  them  that  he  had  pre- 
viously seen  and  admitted  the  validity  of  their  tacit  objec- 
tions; that  he  himself  is  not  tied  down  to  the  represented 
subject,  but  soars  freely  above  it ;  and  that,  if  he  chose,  he 
could  unrelentingly  annihilate  the  beautiful  and  irresistibly 
attractive  scenes  which  his  magic  pen  has  produced.    No 


LECTURES  ON  DRAMATIC  ART  109 

doubt,  wherever  the  proper  tragic  enters,  everything  like 
irony  immediately  ceases ;  but  from  the  avowed  raillery  of 
Comedy,  to  the  point  where  the  subjection  of  mortal  beings 
to  an  inevitable  destiny  demands  the  highest  degree  of 
seriousness,  there  are  a  multitude  of  human  relations  which 
unquestionably  may  be  considered  in  an  ironical  view,  with- 
out confounding  the  eternal  line  of  separation  between  good 
and  evil.  This  purpose  is  answered  by  the  comic  char- 
acters and  scenes  which  are  interwoven  with  the  serious 
parts  in  most  of  those  pieces  of  Shakespeare  where  roman- 
tic fables  or  historical  events  are  made  the  subject  of  a 
noble  and  elevating  exhibition.  Frequently  an  intentional 
parody  of  the  serious  part  is  not  to  be  mistaken  in  them;  at 
other  times  the  connection  is  more  arbitrary  and  loose, 
and  the  more  so,  the  more  marvelous  the  invention  of  the 
whole  and  the  more  entirely  it  has  become  a  light  reveling 
of  the  fancy.  The  comic  intervals  everywhere  serve  to 
prevent  the  pastime  from  being  converted  into  a  business, 
to  preserve  the  mind  in  the  possession  of  its  serenity,  and 
to  keep  off  that  gloomy  and  inert  seriousness  which  so 
easily  steals  upon  the  sentimental,  but  not  tragical,  drama. 
Most  assuredly  Shakespeare  did  not  intend  thereby,  in 
defiance  to  his  own  better  judgment,  to  humor  the  taste 
of  the  multitude :  for  in  various  pieces,  and  throughout  con- 
siderable portions  of  others,  and  especially  when  the  catas- 
trophe is  approaching,  and  the  mind  consequently  is  more 
on  the  stretch  and  no  longer  likely  to  give  heed  to  any 
amusement  which  would  distract  their  attention,  he  has 
abstained  from  all  such  comic  intermixtures.  It  was  also 
an  object  with  him,  that  the  clowns  or  buffoons  should  not 
occupy  a  more  important  place  than  that  which  he  had 
assigned  them:  he  expressly  condemns  the  extemporizing 
with  which  they  loved  to  enlarge  their  parts.*  Johnson 
founds  the  justification  of  the  species  of  drama  in  which 
seriousness  and  mirth  are  mixed,  on  this,  that  in  real  life 
the  vulgar  is  found  close  to  the  sublime,  that  the  merry  and 

•  In  Hamlet's  directions  to  the  players.     Act  iii.,  scene  2. 


110  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

the  sad  usually  accompany  and  succeed  each  other.  But 
it  does  not  follow  that,  because  both  are  found  together, 
therefore  they  must  not  be  separable  in  the  compositions 
of  art.  The  observation  is  in  other  respects  just,  and  this 
circumstance  invests  the  poet  with  a  power  to  adopt  this 
procedure,  because  everj^thing  in  the  drama  must  be  regu- 
lated by  the  conditions  of  theatrical  probability;  but  the 
mixture  of  such  dissimilar,  and  apparently  contradictory, 
ingredients,  in  the  same  works,  can  be  justifiable  only  on 
principles  reconcilable  with  the  views  of  art  which  I  have 
already  described.  In  the  dramas  of  Shakespeare  the  comic 
scenes  are  the  antechamber  of  the  poetry,  where  the  serv- 
ants remain ;  these  prosaic  attendants  must  not  raise  their 
voices  so  high  as  to  deafen  the  speakers  in  the  presence- 
chamber;  however,  in  those  intervals  when  the  ideal  society 
has  retired  they  deserve  to  be  listened  to;  their  bold  rail- 
lery, their  presumption  of  mockery,  may  afford  many  an 
insight  into  the  situation  and  circumstances  of  their 
masters. 

Shakespeare's  comic  talent  is  equally  wonderful  with 
that  which  he  has  shown  in  the  pathetic  and  tragic:  it 
stands  on  an  equal  elevation,  and  possesses  equal  extent 
and  profundity;  in  all  that  I  have  hitherto  said,  I  only 
wished  to  guard  against  admitting  that  the  former  pre- 
ponderated. He  is  highly  inventive  in  comic  situations  and 
motives :  it  mil  be  hardly  possible  to  show  whence  he  has 
taken  any  of  them,  whereas,  in  the  serious  part  of  his 
dramas,  he  has  generally  laid  hold  of  some  well-known 
story.  His  comic  characterization  is  equally  true,  various, 
and  profound,  with  his  serious.  So  little  is  he  disposed  to 
caricature,  that  rather,  it  may  be  said,  many  of  his  traits 
are  almost  too  nice  and  delicate  for  the  stage,  that  they 
can  be  made  available  only  by  a  great  actor  and  fully  under- 
stood only  by  an  acute  audience.  Not  only  has  he  deline- 
ated many  kinds  of  folly,  but  even  of  sheer  stupidity  has 
he  contrived  to  give  a  most  diverting  and  entertaining 
picture.     There  is  also  in  his  pieces  a  peculiar  species  of 


LECTURES  ON  DRAMATIC  ART  111 

the  farcical,  which  apparently  seems  to  be  introduced  more 
arbitrarily,  but  which,  however,  is  founded  on  imitation 
of  some  actual  custom.  This  is  the  introduction  of  the 
merrymaker,  the  fool  with  his  cap  and  bells  and  motley 
dress,  called  more  commonly  in  England  '*  clown,"  who 
appears  in  several  comedies,  though  not  in  all,  but,  of  the 
tragedies,  in  Lear  alone,  and  who  generally  merely  exer- 
cises his  wit  in  conversation  with  the  principal  persons, 
though  he  is  also  sometimes  incorporated  into  the  action. 
In  those  times  it  was  not  only  usual  for  princes  to  have 
their  court  fools,  but  many  distinguished  families,  among 
their  other  retainers,  kept  such  an  exhilarating  house-mate 
as  a  good  antidote  against  the  insipidity  and  wearisome- 
ness  of  ordinary  life,  and  as  a  welcome  interruption  of 
established  formalities.  Great  statesmen,  and  even  eccle- 
siastics, did  not  consider  it  beneath  their  dignity  to  recruit 
and  solace  themselves  after  important  business  with  the 
conversation  of  their  fools;  the  celebrated  Sir  Thomas 
More  had  his  fool  painted  along  with  himself  by  Holbein. 
Shakespeare  appears  to  have  lived  immediately  before  the 
time  when  the  custom  began  to  be  abolished ;  in  the  English 
comic  authors  who  succeeded  him  the  clown  is  no  longer 
to  be  found.  The  dismissal  of  the  fool  has  been  extolled 
as  a  proof  of  refinement;  and  our  honest  forefathers  have 
been  pitied  for  taking  delight  in  such  a  coarse  and  farcical 
amusement.  For  my  part,  I  am  rather  disposed  to  believe 
that  the  practice  was  dropped  from  the  difficulty  in  finding 
fools  able  to  do  full  justice  to  their  parts:*  on  the  other 

*  See  Hamlet's  praise  of  Yorick.     In  Twelfth  Night,  Viola  says: 

Tliis   fellow   is  wise  enough   to   play   the   fool, 

And  to  do  that  well  craves  a  kind  of  wit ; 

He  must  observe  their  mood  on  whom  he  jests, 

The  quality  of  the  persons,  and  the  time ; 

And  like  the  haggard,  check  at  every  feather 

That  comes  before  his  eye.     This  is  a  practice 

As  full  of  labor  as  a  wise  man's  art: 

For  folly  that  he  wisely  shows  is  fit. 

But  wise  men's  folly  fall'n  quite  taints  their  wit. — Author. 
The  passages  from  Shakespeare,  in  the  original  work,  are  given  from  the 
author's  masterly  translation.     We  may  be  allowed,  however,  to  observe  that 
the  last  line  — 

"  Doch  wozu  ist  des  Weisen  Thorheit  nutz  ? " 
literally,  Of  what  use  is  the  folly  of  the  wise?  —  does  not  convey  the  exact 
meaning  of  Shakespeare. —  Trans. 


112  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

hand,  reason,  with  all  its  conceit  of  itself,  has  become  too 
timid  to  tolerate  such  bold  irony;  it  is  always  careful  lest 
the  mantle  of  its  gravity  should  be  disturbed  in  any  of  its 
folds;  and  rather  than  allow  a  privileged  place  to  folly 
beside  itself,  it  has  unconsciously  assumed  the  part  of  the 
ridiculous;  but,  alas!  a  heavy  and  cheerless  ridicule.*  It 
would  be  easy  to  make  a  collection  of  the  excellent  sallies 
and  biting  sarcasms  which  have  been  preserved  of  cele- 
brated court  fools.  It  is  well  known  that  they  frequently 
told  such  truths  to  jDrinces  as  are  never  now  told  to  tliem.t 
Shakespeare 's  fools,  along  with  somewhat  of  an  overstrain- 
ing for  wit,  which  cannot  altogether  be  avoided  when  wit 
becomes  a  separate  profession,  have  for  the  most  part  an 
incomparable  humor  and  an  infinite  abundance  of  intellect, 
enough  indeed  to  supply  a  whole  host  of  ordinary  wise  men. 
I  have  still  a  few  observations  to  make  on  the  diction  and 
versification  of  our  poet.  The  language  is  here  and  there 
somewhat  obsolete,  but  on  the  whole  much  less  so  than  in 
most  of  the  contemporary  writers  —  a  sufficient  proof  of  the 
goodness  of  his  choice.  Prose  had  as  yet  been  but  little 
cultivated,  as  the  learned  generally  wrote  in  Latin  —  a 
favorable  circumstance  for  the  dramatic  poet ;  for  what  has 
he  to  do  with  the  scientific  language  of  books  ?  He  had  not 
only  read,  but  studied,  the  earlier  English  poets;  but  he 
drew  his  language  immediately  from  life  itself,  and  he  pos- 
sessed a  masterly  skill  in  blending  the  dialogical  element 
with  the  highest  poetical  elevation.  I  know  not  what  cer- 
tain critics  mean,  when  they  say  that  Shakespeare  is  fre- 
quently ungrammatical.  To  make  good  their  assertion, 
they  must  prove  that  similar  constructions  never  occur  in 


*  "  Since  the  little  wit  that  fools  have  was  silenced,  the  little  foolery  that 
wise  men  have  makes  a  greater  show." — As  You  Like  It,  Act  I,  scene  2. 

t  Charles  the  Bold,  of  Burgundy,  is  known  to  have  frequently  boasted  that 
he  wished  to  rival  Hannibal  as  the  greatest  general  of  all  ages.  After  his 
defeat  at  Granson,  his  fool  accompanied  him  in  his  hurried  flight,  and  ex- 
claimed, "Ah,  your  Grace,  they  have  for  once  Hanniballed  us!  "  If  the  Duke 
had  given  an  ear  to  this  warning  raillery,  he  would  not  so  soon  afterward 
have  come  to  a  disarraceful  end. 


LECTURES  ON  DRAMATIC  ART  113 

his  contemporaries,  the  direct  contrary  of  which  can,  how- 
ever, be  easily  shown.  In  no  language  is  everything  deter- 
mined on  principle;  much  is  always  left  to  the  caprice  of 
custom,  and  if  this  has  since  changed,  is  the  poet  to  be  made 
answerable  for  it?  The  English  language  had  not  then 
attained  to  that  correct  insipidity  which  has  been  intro- 
duced into  the  more  recent  literature  of  the  country,  to  the 
prejudice,  perhaps,  of  its  originality.  As  a  field  when  first 
brought  under  the  plough  produces,  along  with  the  fruitful 
shoots,  many  luxuriant  weeds,  so  the  poetical  diction  of  the 
day  ran  occasionally  into  extravagance,  but  an  extrava- 
gance originating  in  the  exuberance  of  its  vigor.  We  may 
still  perceive  traces  of  awkwardness,  but  nowhere  of  a 
labored  and  spiritless  display  of  art.  In  general,  Shakes- 
peare's style  yet  remains  the  very  best  model,  both  in  the 
vigorous  and  sublime,  and  the  pleasing  and. tender.  In 
his  sphere  he  has  exhausted  all  the  means  and  appliances 
of  language.  On  all  he  has  impressed  the  stamp  of  his 
mighty  spirit.  His  images  and  figures,  in  their  unsought, 
nay,  uncapricious  singularity,  have  often  a  sweetness  alto- 
gether peculiar.  He  becomes  occasionally  obscure  from 
too  great  fondness  for  compressed  brevity;  but  still,  the 
labor  of  poring  over  Shakespeare's  lines  will  invariably 
meet  an  ample  requital. 

The  verse  in  all  his  plays  is  generally  the  rhymeless 
iambic  of  ten  or  eleven  syllables,  only  occasionally  inter- 
mixed with  rhymes,  but  more  frequently  alternating  with 
prose.  No  one  piece  is  written  entirely  in  prose;  for  even 
in  those  which  approach  the  most  to  the  pure  Comedy,  there 
is  always  something  added  which  gives  them  a  more  poet- 
ical hue  than  usually  belongs  to  this  species.  Many  scenes 
are  wholly  in  prose,  in  others  verse  and  prose  succeed  each 
other  alternately.  This  can  appear  an  impropriety  only 
in  the  eyes  of  those  who  are  accustomed  to  consider  the 
lines  of  a  drama  like  so  many  soldiers  drawn  up  rank  and 
file  on  a  parade,  with  the  same  uniform,  arms,  and  accoutre- 

VOL.  IV  — 8 


114  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

ments,  so  that  when  we  see  one  or  two  we  may  represent 
to  ourselves  thousands  as  being  every  way  like  them. 

In  the  use  of  verse  and  prose  Shakespeare  observes  very 
nice  distinctions  according  to  the  ranks  of  the  speakers, 
but  still  more  according  to  their  characters  and  disposition 
of  mind.  A  noble  language,  elevated  above  the  usual  tone, 
is  suitable  only  to  a  certain  decorum  of  manners,  which  is 
thrown  over  both  vices  and  virtues  and  which  does  not 
even  wholly  disappear  amidst  the  violence  of  passion.  If 
this  is  not  exclusively  possessed  by  the  higher  ranks,  it 
still,  however,  belongs  naturally  more  to  them  than  to  the 
lower;  and  therefore,  in  Shakespeare,  dignity  and  famil- 
iarity of  language,  poetry,  and  prose,  are  in  this  manner 
distributed  among  the  characters.  Hence  his  tradesmen, 
peasants,  soldiers,  sailors,  servants,  but  more  especially 
his  fools  and  clowns,  speak,  almost  without  exception,  in 
the  tone  of  their  actual  life.  However,  inward  dignity  of 
sentiment,  wherever  it  is  possessed,  invariably  displays 
itself  with  a  nobleness  of  its  own,  and  stands  not  in  need,  • 
for  that  end,  of  the  artificial  elegancies  of  education  and 
custom;  it  is  a  universal  right  of  man,  of  the  highest  as 
well  as  the  lowest;  and  hence  also,  in  Shakespeare,  the 
nobility  of  nature  and  morality  is  ennobled  above  the  arti- 
ficial nobility  of  society.  Not  infrequently  also  he  makes 
the  very  same  persons  express  themselves  at  times  in  the 
sublimest  language,  and  at  others  in  the  lowest;  and  this 
inequality  is  in  like  manner  founded  in  truth.  Extraordi- 
nary situations,  which  intensely  occupy  the  head  and  throw 
mighty  passions  into  play,  give  elevation  and  tension  to  the 
soul:  it  collects  all  its  powers  and  exhibits  an  unusual 
energy,  both  in  its  operations  and  in  its  communica- 
tions by  language.  On  the  other  hand,  even  the  greatest 
men  have  their  moments  of  remissness,  when  to  a  certain 
degree  they  forget  the  dignity  of  their  character  in  unre- 
served relaxation.  This  very  tone  of  mind  is  necessary 
before  they  can  receive  amusement  from  the  jokes  of  others, 
or,  what  surely  cannot  dishonor  even  a  hero,  from  passing 


LECTURES  ON  DRAMATIC  ART  115 

jokes  themselves.  Let  any  person,  for  example,  go  care- 
fully through  the  part  of  Hamlet.  How  bold  and  powerful 
the  language  of  his  poetry  when  he  conjures  the  ghost  of 
his  father,  when  he  spurs  himself  on  to  the  bloody  deed, 
when  he  thunders  into  the  soul  of  his  mother!  How  he 
lowers  his  tone  down  to  that  of  common  life,  when  he  has 
to  do  with  persons  whose  station  demands  from  him  such 
a  line  of  conduct ;  when  he  makes  game  of  Polonius  and  the 
courtiers,  instructs  the  player,  and  even  enters  into  the 
jokes  of  the  grave-digger.  Of  all  the  poet's  serious  lead- 
ing characters  there  is  none  so  rich  in  wit  and  humor  as 
Hamlet ;  hence  he  it  is  of  all  of  them  that  makes  the  greatest 
use  of  the  familiar  style.  Others,  again,  never  do  fall  into 
it;  either  because  they  are  constantly  surrounded  by  the 
pomp  of  rank,  or  because  a  uniform  seriousness  is  natural 
to  them ;  or,  in  short,  because  through  the  whole  piece  they 
are  under  the  dominion  of  a  passion  calculated  to  excite, 
and  not,  like  the  sorrow  of  Hamlet,  to  depress  the  mind. 
The  choice  of  the  one  form  or  the  other  is  everywhere  so 
appropriate,  and  so  much  founded  in  the  nature  of  the 
thing,  that  I  will  venture  to  assert,  even  where  the  poet 
in  the  very  same  speech  makes  the  speaker  leave  prose  for 
poetry,  or  the  converse,  this  could  not  be  altered  without 
danger  of  injuring  or  destroying  some  beauty  or  other. 
The  blank  verse  has  this  advantage,  that  its  tone  may  be 
elevated  or  lowered;  it  admits  of  approximation  to  the 
familiar  style  of  conversation,  and  never  forms  such  an 
abrupt  contrast  as  that,  for  example,  between  plain  prose 
and  the  rhyming  Alexandrines. 

Shakespeare 's  iambics  are  sometimes  highly  harmonious 
and  full-sounding;  always  varied  and  suitable  to  the  sub- 
ject, at  one  time  distinguished  by  ease  and  rapidity,  at 
another  they  move  along  with  ponderous  energy.  They 
never  fall  out  of  the  dialogical  character,  which  may  always 
be  traced  even  in  the  continued  discourses  of  individuals, 
excepting  when  the  latter  run  into  the  lyrical.  They  are 
a  complete  model  of  the  dramatic  use  of  this  species  of 


116  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

verse,  whicli,  in  English,  since  Milton,  has  been  also  used 
in  epic  poetry;  but  in  the  latter  it  has  assumed  a  quite 
different  turn.  Even  the  irregularities  of  Shakespeare's 
versification  are  expressive ;  a  verse  broken  off,  or  a  sudden 
change  of  rhythmus,  coincides  with  some  pause  in  the  prog- 
ress of  the  thought,  or  the  entrance  of  another  mental  dis- 
position. As  a  proof  that  he  purposely  violated  the 
mechanical  rules,  from  a  conviction  that  a  too  symmetrical 
versification  does  not  suit  with  the  drama,  and,  on  the 
stage  has  in  the  long  run  a  tendency  to  lull  the  spectators 
to  sleep,  we  may  observe  that  his  earlier  pieces  are  the  most 
diligently  versified,  and  that,  in  the  later  works,  when 
through  practice  he  must  have  acquired  a  greater  facility, 
we  find  the  strongest  deviations  from  the  regular  structure 
of  the  verse.  As  it  served  with  him  merely  to  make  the 
poetical  elevation  perceptible,  he  therefore  claimed  the 
utmost  possible  freedom  in  the  use  of  it. 

The  views  or  suggestions  of  feeling  by  which  he  was 
guided  in  the  use  of  rhyme  may  likewise  be  traced  with 
almost  equal  certainty.  Not  infrequently  scenes,  or  even 
single  speeches,  close  with  a  few  rhyming  lines,  for  the 
purpose  of  more  strongly  marking  the  division,  and  of  giv- 
ing it  more  rounding.  This  was  injudiciously  imitated  by 
the  English  tragic  poets  of  a  later  date;  they  suddenly 
elevated  the  tone  in  the  rhymed  lines,  as  if  the  person  began 
all  at  once  to  speak  in  another  language.  The  practice  was 
welcomed  by  the  actors  from  its  serving  as  a  signal  for 
clapping  when  they  made  their  exit.  In  Shakespeare,  on 
the  other  hand,  the  transitions  are  more  easy:  all  changes 
of  forms  are  brought  about  insensibly,  and  as  if  of  them- 
selves. Moreover,  he  is  generally  fond  of  heightening  a 
series  of  ingenious  and  antithetical  sayings  by  the  use  of 
rhyme.  We  find  other  passages  in  continued  rhyme,  where 
solemnity  and  theatrical  pomp  were  suitable,  as,  for  in- 
stance, in  the  mask,*  as  it  is  called,  in  The  Tempest  and  in 

*  I  shall  take  the  opportunity  of  saying  a  few  words  respecting  this  species 
of  drama  when  I  come  to  speak  of  Ben  Jonson. 


LECTURES  ON  DRAMATIC  ART  117 

the  play  introduced  in  Hamlet.  Of  other  pieces,  for 
instance,  the  Midsummer  Night's  Dream,  and  Romeo  and 
Juliet,  the  rhymes  form  a  considerable  part ;  either  because 
he  may  have  wished  to  give  them  a  glowing  color,  or 
because  the  characters  appropriately  utter  in  a  more  musi- 
cal tone  their  complaints  or  suits  of  love.  In  these  cases 
he  has  even  introduced  rhymed  strophes,  which  approach 
to  the  form  of  the  sonnet,  then  usual  in  England.  The 
assertion  of  Malone,  that  Shakespeare  in  his  youth  was 
fond  of  rhyme,  but  that  he  afterward  rejected  it,  is  suffi- 
ciently refuted  by  his  own  chronology  of  the  poet's  works. 
In  some  of  the  earliest,  for  instance  in  the  second  and  third 
part  of  Henry  the  Sixth,  there  are  hardly  any  rhymes;  in 
what  is  stated  to  be  his  last  piece.  Twelfth  Night,  or 
What  You  Will,  and  in  Macbeth,  which  is  proved  to  have 
been  composed  under  the  reign  of  King  James,  we  find 
them  in  no  inconsiderable  number.  Even  in  the  secondary 
matters  of  form  Shakespeare  was  not  guided  by  humor 
and  accident,  but,  like  a  genuine  artist,  acted  invariably  on 
good  and  solid  grounds.  This  we  might  also  show  of  the 
kinds  of  verse  which  he  least  frequently  used  (for  instance, 
of  the  rhyming  verses  of  seven  and  eight  syllables),  were 
we  not  afraid  of  dwelling  too  long  on  merely  technical 
peculiarities. 

In  England  the  manner  of  handling  rhyming  verse,  and 
the  opinion  as  to  its  harmony  and  elegance,  have,  in  the 
course  of  two  centuries,  undergone  a  much  greater  change 
than  is  the  case  with  the  rhymeless  iambic  or  blank  verse. 
In  the  former,  Dryden  and  Pope  have  become  models ;  these 
writers  have  communicated  the  utmost  smoothness  to  rhyme, 
but  they  have  also  tied  it  down  to  a  harmonious  uniformity. 
A  foreigner,  to  whom  antiquated  and  new  are  the  same, 
may  perhaps  feel  with  greater  freedom  the  advantages  of 
the  more  ancient  manner.  Certain  it  is,  the  rhyme  of  the 
present  day,  from  the  too  great  confinement  of  the  couplet, 
is  unfit  for  the  drama.  We  must  not  estimate  the  rhyme 
of  Shakespeare  by  the  mode  of  subsequent  times,  but  by  a 


118  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

comparison  with  his  contemporaries  or  with  Spenser.  The 
comparison  will,  without  doubt,  turn  out  to  his  advantage. 
Spenser  is  often  diffuse;  Shakespeare,  though  sometimes 
hard,  is  always  brief  and  vigorous.  He  has  more  fre- 
quently been  induced  by  the  rhyme  to  leave  out  something 
necessary  than  to  insert  anything  superfluous.  Many  of 
his  rhymes,  however,  are  faultless:  ingenious  with  attrac- 
tive ease,  and  rich  without  false  brilliancy.  The  songs 
interspersed  (those,  I  mean,  of  the  poet  himself)  are  gen- 
erally sweetly  playful  and  altogether  musical ;  in  imagina- 
tion, while  we  merely  read  them,  we  hear  their  melody. 

The  whole  of  Shakespeare's  productions  bear  the  certain 
stamp  of  his  original  genius,  but  yet  no  writer  was  ever 
further  removed  from  everything  like  a  mannerism  derived 
from  habit  or  personal  peculiarities.  Rather  is  he,  such  is 
the  diversity  of  tone  and  color  which  vary  according  to 
the  quality  of  his  subjects  he  assumes,  a  very  Proteus. 
Each  of  his  compositions  is  like  a  world  of  its  own,  moving 
in  its  own  sphere.  They  are  works  of  art,  finished  in  one 
pervading  style,  which  revealed  the  freedom  and  judicious 
choice  of  their  author.  If  the  formation  of  a  work  through- 
out, even  in  its  minutest  parts,  in  conformity  with  a  leading 
idea;  if  the  domination  of  one  animating  spirit  over  all 
the  means  of  execution,  deserves  the  name  of  correctness 
(and  this,  excepting  in  matters  of  grammar,  is  the  only 
proper  sense  of  the  term) ;  we  shall  then,  after  allowing  to 
Shakespeare  all  the  higher  qualities  which  demand  our 
admiration,  be  also  compelled,  in  most  cases,  to  concede  to 
him  the  title  of  a  correct  poet. 

It  would  be  in  the  highest  degree  instructive  to  follow,  if 
we  could,  in  his  career  step  by  step,  an  author  who  at  once 
founded  and  carried  his  art  to  perfection,  and  to  go  through 
his  works  in  the  order  of  time.  But,  with  the  exception  of 
a  few  fixed  points,  which  at  length  have  been  obtained,  all 
the  necessary  materials  for  this  are  still  wanting.  The 
diligent  Malone  has,  indeed,  made  an  attempt  to  arrange 
the  plays  of  Shakespeare  in  chronological  order;  but  he 


LECTURES  ON  DRAMATIC  ART  119 

himself  gives  out  only  the  result  of  his  labors  as  hypo- 
thetical, and  it  could  not  possibly  be  attended  with  complete 
success,  since  he  excluded  from  his  inquiry  a  considerable 
number  of  pieces  which  have  been  ascribed  to  the  poet, 
though  rejected  as  spurious  by  all  the  editors  since  Rowe, 
but  which,  in  my  opinion,  must,  if  not  wholly,  at  least  in 
great  measure  be  attributed  to  him. 


FRIET>RICH  SCHLEGEL 


INTRODUCTION  TO  LUCINDA 

By  Calvin  Thomas 

Professor  of  Germanic  Languages  and  Literatures,  Columbia  University 

;EIEDRICH  SCHLEGEL 'S  Liicinda,  published 
in  1799,  was  an  explosion  of  youthful  radical- 
ism—  a  rather  violent  explosion  which  still 
reverberates  in  the  histories  of  German 
Romanticism.  It  is  a  book  about  the  meta- 
physics of  love  and  marriage,  the  emancipation  of  the  flesh, 
the  ecstasies  and  follies  of  the  enamored  state,  the  nature 
and  the  rights  of  woman,  and  other  such  matters  of  which 
the  world  w^as  destined  to  hear  a  great  deal  during  the 
nineteenth  century.  Not  by  accident,  but  by  intention,  the 
little  book  was  shocking,  formless,  incoherent  —  a  riot  of 
the  ego  without  beginning,  middle,  or  end.  Now  and  then 
it  passed  the  present  limits  of  the  printable  in  its  exploita- 
tion of  the  improper  and  the  unconventional. 

Yet  the  book  was  by  no  means  the  wanton  freak  of  a 
prurient  imagination;  it  had  a  serious  purpose  and  was 
believed  by  its  author  to  present  the  essentials  of  a  new 
and  beautiful  theory  of  life,  art  and  religion.  The  great 
Schleiermacher,  one  of  the  profoundest  of  German  theo- 
logians and  an  eloquent  friend  of  religion,  called  Lucinda 
a  * '  divine  book  ' '  and  its  author  a  '  *  priest  of  love  and 
wisdom."  '*  Everything  in  this  work,"  he  declared,  *'  is 
at  once  human  and  divine;  a  magic  air  of  divinity  rises 
from  its  deep  springs  and  permeates  the  whole  temple." 
Today  no  man  in  his  senses  would  praise  the  book  in  such 
terms.  Yet,  with  all  its  crudities  of  style  and  its  aberra- 
tions of  taste,  Lucinda  reveals,  not  indeed  the  whole  form 
and  pressure  of  the  epoch  that  gave  it  birth,  but  certain 
very  interesting  aspects  of  it.    Then,  too,  it  marks  a  curious 

[120] 


Permission  E.  Linde  of  Co.,  Berlin 

FRIEDRICH  SCHLEGEL 


E.  Hader 


INTRODUCTION  TO  LUCINDA  121 

stage  in  the  development  of  the  younger  Schlegel,  a  really 
profound  thinker  and  one  of  the  notable  men  of  his  day. 
This  explains  why  a  considerable  portion  of  the  much  dis-    / 
cussed  book  is  here  presented  for  the  first  time  in  an  Eng- 
lish dress. 

The  earliest  writings  of  Friedrich  Schlegel  —  he  was 
born  in  1772  —  relate  to  Greek  literature,  a  field  which  he 
cultivated  with  enthusiasm  and  with  ample  learning.  In 
particular  he  was  interested  in  what  his  Greek  poets  and 
philosophers  had  to  say  of  the  position  of  women  in  society  ;xy 
of  the  hetairai  as  the  equal  and  inspiring  companions  of 
men;  of  a  more  or  less  refined  sexual  love,  untrammeled 
by  law  and  convention,  as  the  basis  of  a  free,  harmonious 
and  beautiful  existence.  Among  other  things,  he  seems  to 
have  been  much  impressed  by  Plato 's  notion  that  the  genus 
homo  was  one  before  it  broke  up  into  male  and  female,  and  y 
that  sexual  attraction  is  a  desire  to  restore  the  lost  unity. 
In  a  very  learned  essay  On  Diotima,  published  in  1797  — 
Diotima  is  the  woman  of  whose  relation  to  Socrates  we 
get  a  glimpse  in  Plato's  Symposium  —  there  is  much  that 
foreshadows  Lucinda.  Let  two  or  three  sentences  suffice. 
''  What  is  uglier  than  the  overloaded  femininity,  what  is 
more  loathesome  than  the  exaggerated  masculinity,  that 
rules  in  our  customs,  our  opinions,  and  even  in  our  better 
art?  "  ''  Precisely  the  tyrannical  vehemence  of  the  man, 
the  flabby  self-surrender  of  the  woman,  is  in  itself  an  ugly 
exaggeration."  "  Only  the  womanhood  that  is  independ- 
ent, only  the  manhood  that  is  gentle,  is  good  and  beautiful. ' ' 

In  1796  Friedrich  Schlegel  joined  his  brother  at  Jena, 
where  Fichte  was  then  expounding  his  philosophy.  It  was 
a  system  of  radical  idealism,  teaching  that  the  only  reality 
is  the  absolute  Ego,  whose  self-assertion  thus  becomes  the 
fundamental  law  of  the  world.  The  Fichtean  system  had 
not  yet  been  fully  worked  out  in  its  metaphysical  bearings, 
but  the  strong  and  engaging  personality  of  its  author  gave 
it,  for  a  little  while,  immense  prestige  and  influence.  To 
Friedrich  Schlegel  it  seemed  the  gospel  of  a  new  era  — 


122  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

a  sort  of  French  Revolution  in  philosophy.  Indeed  he  pro- 
claimed that  the  three  greatest  events  of  the  century  were 
the  French  Revolution,  Fichte's  philosophy,  and  Goethe's 
Wilhelm  Meister.  This  last,  which  appeared  in  1796  and 
contained  obvious  elements  of  autobiography,  together 
with  poems  and  disquisitions  on  this  and  that,  was  admired 
by  him  beyond  all  measure.  He  saw  in  it  the  exemplar 
and  the  program  of  a  wonderful  new  art  which  he  proposed 
to  call  *'  Romantic  Poetry." 

But  gray  theory  would  never  have  begotten  Lucinda. 
Going  to  Berlin  in  1797,  Schlegel  made  the  acquaintance 
of  Dorothea  Veit,  daughter  of  Moses  Mendelsohn  and  wife 
of  a  Berlin  banker.  She  was  nine  years  his  senior.  A 
strong  attachment  grew  up  between  them,  and  presently 
the  lady  was  persuaded  to  leave  her  husband  and  become 
the  paramour  of  Schlegel.  Even  after  the  divorce  was 
obtained  Schlegel  refused  for  some  time  to  be  married  in 
church,  believing  that  he  had  a  sort  of  duty  to  perform 
in  asserting  the  rights  of  passion  over  against  social  con- 
vention. For  several  years  the  pair  lived  in  wild  wedlock 
before  they  were  regularly  married.  In  1808  they  both 
joined  the  Catholic  Church,  and  from  that  time  on  nothing 
more  was  heard  of  Friedrich  Schlegel 's  radicalism.  He 
came  to  hold  opinions  which  were  for  the  most  part  the 
exact  opposite  of  those  he  had  held  in  his  youth.  The 
vociferous  friend  of  individual  liberty  became  a  reaction- 
ary champion  of  authority.  Of  course  he  grew  ashamed 
of  Lucinda  and  excluded  it  from  his  collected  works. 

Such  was  the  soil  in  which  the  naughty  book  grew.  It 
was  an  era  of  lax  ideas  regarding  the  marriage  tie.  Wil- 
helm Schlegel  married  a  divorced  woman  who  was  destined 
in  due  time  to  transfer  herself  without  legal  formalities  to 
Schelling.  Goethe  had  set  the  example  by  his  conscience 
marriage  with  Christiane  Vulpius.  It  remains  only  to  be 
said  that  the  most  of  Friedrich  Schlegel 's  intimates,  in- 
cluding his  brother  Wilhelm,  advised  against  the  publica- 
tion of  Lucinda.    But  here,  as  in  the  matter  of  his  marriage. 


INTRODUCTION  TO  LUCINDA  123 

the  author  felt  that  he  had  a  duty  to  perform :  it  was  neces- 
sary to  declare  independence  of  Mrs.  Grundy's  tyranny  and 
shock  people  for  their  own  good.  But  the  reader  of  today 
will  feel  that  the  worst  shortcomings  of  the  book  are  not 
its  immoralities,  but  its  sins  against  art. 

It  will  be  observed  that  while  Lucinda  was  called  by  its 
author  a  ' '  novel, ' '  it  hardly  deserves  that  name.  There  is 
no  story,  no  development  of  a  plot.  The  book  consists  of 
disconnected  glimpses  in  the  form  of  letters,  disquisitions, 
rhapsodies,  conversations,  etc.,  each  with  a  more  or  less 
suggestive  heading.  Two  of  these  sections  —  one  cannot 
call  them  chapters  —  are  omitted  in  the  translation,  namely, 
"Allegory  of  Impudence "  and  "Apprenticeship  of 
Manhood." 


LUCINDA  (1799) 


By  Friedrich  Schlegel 

TRANSLATED   BY   PAUL  BERNARD   THOMAS 

Prologue 

MILING  with  emotion  Petrarch  opens  the  col- 
lection of  his  immortal  romanzas  with  a 
prefatory  survey.  The  clever  Boccaccio 
talks  with  flattering  courtesy  to  all  women, 
both  at  the  beginning  and  at  the  end  of  his 
opulent  book.  The  great  Cervantes  too,  an  old  man  in 
agony,  but  still  genial  and  full  of  delicate  wit,  drapes  the 
motley  spectacle  of  his  lifelike  writings  with  the  costly 
tapestry  of  a  preface,  which  in  itself  is  a  beautiful  and 
romantic  painting. 

Uproot  a  stately  plant  from  its  fertile,  maternal  soil,  and 
there  will  still  cling  lovingly  to  it  much  that  can  seem 
superfluous  only  to  a  niggard. 

But  what  shall  my  spirit  bestow  upon  its  offspring,  which, 
like  its  parent,  is  as  poor  in  poesy  as  it  is  rich  in  love  ? 

Just  one  word,  a  parting  trope :  It  is  not  alone  the  royal 
eagle  who  may  despise  the  croaking  of  the  raven ;  the  swan, 
too,  is  proud  and  takes  no  note  of  it.  Nothing  concerns  him 
except  to  keep  clean  the  sheen  of  his  white  pinions.  He 
thinks  only  of  nestling  against  Leda's  bosom  without  hurt- 
ing her,  and  of  breathing  forth  into  song  everything  that 
is  mortal  within  him. 

[124] 


i\\Q-\ 


THE  CREATION 

MIIJ 


1.^  ■        •)  '  1        »l  X 


the  end  o 
01  an  old  ma 

tai  Is  a  beautifii)  am! 


Fror^^We  Paint^p' h'y  MoHtz  v'on  &ch wind- 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  AWKWARD  MAN 

Julius  to  Lucinda 

I UMAN  beings  and  what  they  want  and  do, 
seemed  to  me,  when  I  thought  of  it,  like  gray, 
motionless  figures;  but  in  the  holy  solitude 
all  around  me  everything  was  light  and  color. 
A  fresh,  warm  breath  of  life  and  love  fanned 
me,  rustling  and  stirring  in  all  the  branches  of  the  verdant 
grove.  I  gazed  and  enjoyed  it  all,  the  rich  green,  the  white 
blossoms  and  the  golden  fruit.  And  in  my  mind's  eye  I 
saw,  too,  in  many  forms,  my  one  and  only  Beloved,  now  as 
a  little  girl,  now  as  a  young  lady  in  the  full  bloom  and 
energy  of  love  and  womanhood,  and  now  as  a  dignified 
mother  with  her  demure  babe  in  her  arms.  I  breathed  the 
spring  and  I  saw  clearly  all  about  me  everlasting  youth. 
Smiling  I  said  to  myself:  ''  Even  if  this  world  is  not  the 
best  and  most  useful  of  places,  it  is  certainly  the  most 
beautiful. ' ' 

From  this  feeling  or  thought  nothing  could  have  turned 
me,  neither  general  despair  nor  personal  fear.  For  I  be- 
lieved that  the  deep  secrets  of  nature  were  being  revealed 
to  me ;  I  felt  that  everything  was  immortal  and  that  death 
was  only  a  pleasant  illusion.  But  I  really  did  not  think 
very  much  about  it,  since  I  was  not  particularly  in  a  mood 
for  mental  synthesis  and  analysis.  But  I  gladly  lost  myself 
in  all  those  blendings  and  intertwinings  of  joy  and  pain 
from  which  spring  the  spice  of  life  and  the  flower  of  feel- 
ing—  spiritual  pleasure  as  well  as  sensual  bliss.  A  subtle 
fire  flowed  through  my  veins.  What  I  dreamed  was  not  of 
kissing  you,  not  of  holding  you  in  my  arms ;  it  was  not  only 
the  wish  to  relieve  the  tormenting  sting  of  my  desire,  and  to 
cool  the  sweet  fire  by  gratification.  It  was  not  for  your 
lips  that  I  longed,  or  for  your  eyes,  or  for  your  body;  no, 

[125] 


126  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

it  was  a  romantic  confusion  of  all  of  these  things,  a  mar- 
velous mingling  of  memories  and  desires.  All  the  myster- 
ies of  caprice  in  man  and  woman  seemed  to  hover  about  me, 
when  suddenly  in  my  solitude  your  real  presence  and  the 
glowing  rapture  in  your  face  completely  set  me  afire.  Wit 
and  ecstasy  now  began  their  alternating  play,  and  were  the 
common  pulse  of  our  united  life.  There  was  no  less 
abandon  than  religion  in  our  embrace.  I  besought  you  to 
}n.e\d  to  my  frenzy  and  implored  you  to  be  insatiable.  And 
yet  with  calm  presence  of  mind  I  watched  for  the  slightest 
sign  of  joy  in  you,  so  that  not  one  should  escape  me  to 
impair  the  harmony.  I  not  only  enjoyed,  but  I  felt  and 
enjoyed  the  enjoyment. 

You  are  so  extraordinarily  clever,  dearest  Lucinda,  that 
you  have  doubtless  long  ere  this  begun  to  suspect  that  this 
is  all  nothing  but  a  beautiful  dream.  And  so,  alas,  it  is; 
and  I  should  indeed  feel  very  disconsolate  about  it  if  I 
could  not  cherish  the  hope  that  at  least  a  part  of  it  may  soon 
be  realized.  The  truth  of  the  matter  is  this :  Not  long  ago 
I  was  standing  by  the  window  —  how  long  I  do  not  know, 
for  along  with  the  other  rules  of  reason  and  morality,  I 
completely  forgot  about  the  lapse  of  time.  Well,  I  was 
standing  by  the  window  and  looking  out  into  the  open ;  the 
morning  certainly  deserves  to  be  called  beautiful,  the  air 
is  still  and  quite  warm,  and  the  verdure  here  before  me  is 
fresh.  And  even  as  the  wide  land  undulates  in  hills  and 
dales,  so  the  calm,  broad,  silvery  river  winds  along  in  great 
bends  and  sweeps,  until  it  and  the  lover's  fantasy,  cradled 
upon  it  like  the  swan,  pass  away  into  the  distance  and  lose 
themselves  in  the  immeasurable.  My  vision  doubtless  owes 
the  grove  and  its  southern  color-effect  to  the  huge  mass  of 
flowers  here  beside  me,  among  which  I  see  a  large  number 
of  oranges.  All  the  rest  is  readily  explained  by  psychology. 
It  was  an  illusion,  dear  friend,  all  an  illusion,  all  except  that, 
not  long  ago,  I  was  standing  by  the  window  and  doing  noth- 
ing, and  that  I  am  now  sitting  here  and  doing  something  — 
something  which  is  perhaps  little  more  than  nothing,  per- 
haps even  less. 


LUClNDA  127 

I  had  written  thus  far  to  you  about  the  things  I  had  said 
to  myself,  when,  in  the  midst  of  my  tender  thoughts  and 
profound  feelings  about  the  dramatic  connection  of  our 
embraces,  a  coarse  and  unpleasant  occurrence  interrupted 
me.  I  was  just  on  the  point  of  unfolding  to  you  in  clear 
and  precise  periods  the  exact  and  straightforward  history 
of  our  frivolities  and  of  my  dulness.  I  was  going  to  ex- 
pound to  you,  step  by  step,  in  accordance  with  natural  laws, 
the  misunderstandings  that  attack  the  hidden  centre  of  the 
loveliest  existence,  and  to  confess  to  you  the  manifold 
effects  of  my  awkwardness.  I  was  about  to  describe  the 
apprenticeship  of  my  manhood,  a  period  which,  taken  as  a 
whole  or  in  parts,  I  can  never  look  back  upon  without  a 
great  deal  of  inward  amusement,  a  little  melancholy,  and 
considerable  self-satisfaction.  Still,  as  a  refined  lover  and 
writer,  I  will  endeavor  to  refashion  the  coarse  occurrence 
and  adapt  it  to  my  purpose.  For  me  and  for  this  book, 
however,  for  my  love  of  it  and  for  its  inner  development, 
there  is  no  better  adaptation  of  means  to  ends  than  this, 
namely,  that  right  at  the  start  I  begin  by  abolishing  what 
we  call  orderly  arrangement,  keep  myself  entirely  aloof  from 
it,  frankly  claiming  and  asserting  the  right  to  a  charming 
confusion.  This  is  all  the  more  necessary,  inasmuch  as 
the  material  w^hich  our  life  and  love  offers  to  my  spirit  and 
to  my  pen  is  so  incessantly  progressive  and  so  inflexibly 
systematic.  If  the  form  were  also  of  that  character,  this, 
in  its  way,  unique  letter  would  then  acquire  an  intolerable 
unity  and  monotony,  and  would  no  longer  produce  the 
desired  effect,  namely,  to  fashion  and  complete  a  most 
lovely  chaos  of  sublime  harmonies  and  interesting  pleas- 
ures. So  I  use  my  incontestable  right  to  a  confused  style 
by  inserting  here,  in  the  wrong  place,  one  of  the  many 
incoherent  sheets  which  I  once  filled  with  rubbish,  and 
which  you,  good  creature,  carefully  preserved  without  my 
knowing  it.  It  was  written  in  a  mood  of  impatient  longing, 
due  to  my  not  finding  you  where  I  most  surely  expected  to 


128  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

find  you  —  in  your  room,  on  our  sofa  —  in  the  haphazard 
words  suggested  by  the  pen  you  had  lately  been  using. 

The  selection  is  not  difficult.  For  since,  among  the 
dreamy  fancies  which  are  here  confided  to  you  in  perma- 
nent letters,  the  recollection  of  this  most  beautiful  world 
is  the  most  significant,  and  has  a  certain  sort  of  resemblance 
to  what  they  call  thought,  I  choose  in  preference  to  any- 
thing else  a  dithyrambic  fantasy  on  the  most  lovely  of  situ- 
ations. For  once  we  know  to  a  certainty  that  we  live  in 
a  most  beautiful  world,  the  next  need  is  obvious,  namely,  to 
inform  ourselves  fully,  either  tiirough  ourselves  or  through 
others,  about  the  most  lovely  situation  in  this  most  beauti- 
ful world. 

DiTHYKAMBIC    FaNTASY   ON    THE   LoVELIEST    OF    SITUATIONS 

A  BIG  tear  falls  upon  the  holy  sheet  which  I  found  here 
instead  of  you.  How  faithfully  and  how  simply  you  have 
sketched  it,  the  old  and  daring  idea  of  my  dearest  and  most 
intimate  purpose!  In  you  it  has  grown  up,  and  in  this 
mirror  I  do  not  shrink  from  loving  and  admiring  myself. 
Only  here  I  see  myself  in  harmonious  completeness.  For 
your  spirit,  too,  stands  distinct  and  perfect  before  me,  not 
as  an  apparition  which  appears  and  fades  away  again,  but 
as  one  of  the  forms  that  endure  forever.  It  looks  at  me 
joyously  out  of  its  deep  eyes  and  opens  its  arms  to  embrace 
my  spirit.  The  holiest  and  most  evanescent  of  those  deli- 
cate traits  and  utterances  of  the  soul,  which  to  one  who  does 
not  know  the  highest  seem  like  bliss  itself,  are  merely  the 
common  atmosphere  of  our  spiritual  breath  and  life. 

The  words  are  weak  and  vague.  Furthermore,  in  this 
throng  of  impressions  I  could  only  repeat  anew  the  one 
inexhaustible  feeling  of  our  original  harmony.  A  great 
future  beckons  me  on  into  the  immeasurable;  each  idea 
develops  a  countless  progeny.  The  extremes  of  unbridled 
gayety  and  of  quiet  presentiment  live  together  within  me. 
I  remember  everything,  even  the  griefs,  and  all  my  thoughts 
that  have  been  and  are  to  be  bestir  themselves  and  arise 


LUCINDA  129 

before  me.  The  blood  rushes  wildly  through  my  swollen 
veins,  my  mouth  thirsts  for  the  contact  of  your  lips,  and 
my  fancy  seeks  vainly  among  the  many  forms  of  joy  for 
one  which  might  at  last  gratify  my  desire  and  give  it  rest. 
And  then  again  I  suddenly  and  sadly  bethink  me  of  the 
gloomy  time  when  I  was  always  waiting  without  hope,  and 
madly  loving  without  knowing  it ;  when  my  innermost  being 
overflowed  with  a  vague  longing,  which  it  breathed  forth 
but  rarely  in  half-suppressed  sighs. 

Oh,  I  should  have  thought  it  all  a  fairy-tale  that  there 
could  be  such  joy,  such  love  as  I  now  feel,  and  such  a 
woman,  who  could  be  my  most  tender  Beloved,  my  best 
companion,  and  at  the  same  time  a  perfect  friend.  For  it 
was  in  friendship  especially  that  I  sought  for  what  I 
wanted,  and  for  what  I  never  hoped  to  find  in  any  woman. 
In  you  I  found  it  all,  and  more  than  I  could  wish  for ;  but 
you  are  so  unlike  the  rest.  Of  what  custom  or  caprice  calls 
womanly,  you  know  nothing.  The  womanliness  of  your 
soul,  aside  from  minor  peculiarities,  consists  in  its  regard- 
ing life  and  love  as  the  same  thing.  For  you  all  feeling  is 
infinite  and  eternal;  you  recognize  no  separations,  your 
being  is  an  indivisible  unity.  That  is  why  you  are  so 
serious  and  so  joyous,  why  you  regard  everything  in  such 
a  large  and  indifferent  way;  that  is  why  you  love  me,  all 
of  me,  and  will  surrender  no  part  of  me  to  the  state,  to 
posterity,  or  to  manly  pleasures.  I  am  all  yours;  we  are 
closest  to  each  other  and  we  understand  each  other.  You 
accompany  me  through  all  the  stages  of  manhood,  from  the 
utmost  wantonness  to  the  most  refined  spirituality.  In 
you  alone  I  first  saw  true  pride  and  true  feminine  humility. 

The  most  extreme  suffering,  if  it  is  only  surrounded,  with- 
out separating  us,  would  seem  to  me  nothing  but  a  charm- 
ing antithesis  to  the  sublime  frivolity  of  our  marriage. 
^Vhy  should  we  not  take  the  harshest  whim  of  chance  for 
an  excellent  jest  and  a  most  frolicsome  caprice,  since  we, 
like  our  love,  are  immortal?  I  can  no  longer  say  my  love 
and  your  love;  they  are  both  alike  in  their  perfect  mutu- 

VoL.  IV  — 9 


130  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

ality.  Marriage  is  the  everlasting  unity  and  alliance  of 
our  spirits,  not  only  for  what  we  call  this  world  and  that 
world,  but  for  the  one,  true,  indivisible,  nameless,  endless 
world  of  our  entire  being,  so  long  as  we  live.  Therefore,  if 
it  seemed  the  proper  time,  I  would  drain  with  you  a  cup 
of  poison,  just  as  gladly  and  just  as  easily  as  that  last  glass 
of  champagne  we  drank  together,  when  I  said:  "And  so 
let  us  drink  out  the  rest  of  our  lives."  With  these  words 
I  hurriedly  quaffed  the  wine,  before  its  noble  spirit  ceased 
to  sparkle.  And  so  I  say  again,  let  us  live  and  love.  I 
know  you  would  not  wish  to  survive  me ;  you  would  rather 
follow  your  dying  husband  into  his  coffin.  Gladly  and 
lovingly  would  you  iescend  into  the  burning  abyss,  even 
as  the  women  of  India  do,  impelled  by  a  mad  law,  the  cruel, 
constraining  purpose  of  which  desecrates  and  destroys  the 
most  delicate  sanctities  of  the  will. 

On  the  other  side,  perhaps,  longing  will  be  more  com- 
pletely realized.  I  often  wonder  over  it;  every  thought, 
and  whatever  else  is  fashioned  within  us,  seems  to  be  com- 
plete in  itself,  as  single  and  indivisible  as  a  person.  One 
thing  crowds  out  another,  and  that  which  just  now  was  near 
and  present  soon  sinks  back  into  obscurity.  And  then 
again  come  moments  of  sudden  and  universal  clarity,  when 
several  such  spirits  of  the  inner  world  completely  fuse 
together  into  a  wonderful  wedlock,  and  many  a  forgotten 
bit  of  our  ego  shmes  forth  in  a  new  light  and  even  illumi- 
nates the  darkness  of  the  future  with  its  bright  lustre.  As 
it  is  in  a  small  way,  so  is  it  also,  I  think,  in  a  large  way. 
That  which  we  call  a  life  is  for  the  complete,  inner,  im- 
mortal man  only  a  single  idea,  an  indivisible  feeling.  And 
for  him  there  come,  too,  moments  of  the  profoundest  and 
,  fullest  consciousness,  when  all  lives  fall  together  and 
I  mingle  and  separate  in  a  different  way.  The  time  is  com- 
vj  ing  when  we  two  shall  behold  in  one  spirit  that  we  are 
blossoms  of  one  plant,  or  petals  of  one  flower.  We  shall 
then  know  with  a  smile  that  what  we  now  call  merely  hope 
was  really  memory. 


LUCINDA  131 

Do  you  know  how  the  first  seed  of  this  idea  germinated  in 
my  soul  before  you  and  took  root  in  yours !  Thus  does  the 
religion  of  love  weave  our  love  ever  and  ever  more  closely 
and  firmly  together,  just  as  a  child,  like  an  echo,  doubles 
the  happiness  of  its  gentle  parents. 

Nothing  can  part  us ;  and  certainly  any  separation  would 
only  draw  me  more  powerfully  to  you.  I  bethink  me  how 
at  our  last  embrace,  you  vehemently  resisting,  I  burst  into 
simultaneous  tears  and  laughter.  I  tried  to  calm  myself, 
and  in  a  sort  of  bewilderment  I  would  not  believe  that  I 
was  separated  from  you  until  the  surrounding  objects  con- 
vinced me  of  it  against  my  will.  But  then  my  longing  grew 
again  irresistible,  until  on  its  wings  I  sank  back  into  your 
arms.  Suppose  words  or  a  human  being  to  create  a  mis- 
understanding between  us!  The  poignant  grief  would  be 
transient  and  quickly  resolve  itself  into  complete  harmony. 
How  could  separation  separate  us,  when  presence  itself  is 
to  us,  as  it  were,  too  present!  We  have  to  cool  and  miti- 
gate the  consuming  fire  with  jests,  and  thus  for  us  the 
most  witty  of  the  forms  and  situations  of  joy  is  also  the 
most  beautiful.  One  among  all  is  at  once  the  wittiest  and 
the  loveliest:  when  we  exchange  roles  and  with  childish 
delight  try  to  see  who  can  best  imitate  the  other ;  whether 
you  succeed  best  with  the  tender  vehemence  of  a  man,  or 
I  with  the  yielding  devotion  of  a  woman.  But,  do  you  know, 
this  sweet  game  has  for  me  quite  other  charms  than  its  own. 
It  is  not  merely  the  delight  of  exhaustion  or  the  anticipa- 
tion of  revenge.  I  see  in  it  a  wonderful  and  profoundly 
significant  allegory  of  the  development  of  man  and  woman 
into  complete  humanity.    *    *    * 


That  was  my  dithyrambic  fantasy  on  the  loveliest  situ- 
ation in  the  loveliest  of  worlds.  I  know  right  well  what  you 
thought  of  it  and  how  you  took  it  at  that  time.  And  I  think 
I  know  just  as  well  what  you  will  think  of  it  and  how  you 
will  take  it  here,  here  in  this  little  book,  in  which  you  expect 
to  find  genuine  history,  plain  truth  and  calm  reason;  yes, 


132  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

even  morality,  the  charming  morality  of  love.  ''  How  can  a 
man  wish  to  write  anything  which  it  is  scarcely  permissible 
to  talk  about,  which  ought  only  to  be  felt  ?  "  I  replied :  '  *  If 
a  man  feels  it,  he  must  wish  to  talk  about  it,  and  what  a 
man  wishes  to  talk  about  he  may  write. ' ' 

I  wanted  first  to  demonstrate  to  you  that  there  exists  in 
the  original  and  essential  nature  of  man  a  certain  awkward 
enthusiasm  which  likes  to  utter  boldly  that  which  is  delicate 
and  holy,  and  sometimes  falls  headlong  over  its  own  honest 
zeal  and  speaks  a  word  that  is  divine  to  the  point  of 
coarseness. 

This  apology  would  indeed  save  me,  but  perhaps  only  at 
the  enormous  expense  of  my  manhood  itself ;  for  whatever 
you  may  think  of  my  manhood  in  particular,  you  have 
nevertheless  a  great  deal  against  the  sex  in  general.  Mean- 
time I  will  by  no  means  make  common  cause  with  them,  but 
will  rather  excuse  and  defend  my  liberty  and  audacity  by 
means  of  the  example  of  the  little  innocent  Wilhelmina, 
since  she  too  is  a  lady  whom  I  love  most  tenderly.  So  1 
will  straightway  attempt  a  little  sketch  of  her  character. 

Sketch  of  Little  Wilhelmina 
When  one  regards  the  remarkable  child,  not  from  the 
viewpoint  of  any  one-sided  theory,  but,  as  is  proper,  in  a 
large,  impartial  way,  one  can  boldly  say  —  and  it  is  perhaps 
the  best  thing  one  could  possibly  say  of  her  —  that  for  her 
years  she  is  the  cleverest  person  of  her  time.  And  that  is 
indeed  saying  a  great  deal;  for  how  seldom  do  we  find  har- 
monious culture  in  people  two  years  old?  The  strongest  of 
the  many  strong  proofs  of  her  inward  perfection  is  her 
serene  self-complacency.  After  she  has  eaten  she  always 
spreads  both  her  little  arms  out  on  the  table,  and  resting 
her  cunning  head  on  them  with  amusing  seriousness,  she 
makes  big  eyes  and  casts  cute  glances  at  the  family  all 
around  her.  Then  she  straightens  up  and  with  the  most 
vivid  expression  of  irony  on  her  face,  smiles  at  her  own 
cuteness  and  our  inferiority.    She  is  full  of  buffoonery  and 


LUCINDA  133 

has  a  nice  appreciation  of  it.  When  I  imitate  her  gestures, 
she  immediately  copies  my  imitation ;  thus  we  have  created 
a  mimic  language  of  our  own  and  make  each  other  under- 
stand by  means  of  pantomime  hieroglyphics. 

For  poetry,  I  think,  she  has  far  more  inclination  than  for 
philosophy;  so  also  she  likes  to  ride  better  than  to  walk, 
which  last  she  does  only  in  case  of  necessity.  The  ugly 
cacophony  of  our  mother-tongue  here  in  the  north  melts 
on  her  tongue  into  the  sweet  and  mellow  euphony  of  Italian 
and  Hindu  speech.  She  is  especially  fond  of  rhjnues,  as  of 
everything  else  that  is  beautiful ;  she  never  grows  tired  of 
saying  and  singing  over  and  over  again  to  herself,  one 
after  the  other,  all  her  favorite  little  verses  —  as  it  were, 
a  classic  selection  of  her  little  pleasures.  Poetry  binds  the 
blossoms  of  all  things  together  into  a  light  garland,  and  so 
little  Wilhelmina  talks  in  rhyme  about  regions,  times,  events, 
persons,  toys  and  things  to  eat  —  all  mixed  together  in  a 
romantic  chaos,  every  word  a  picture.  And  she  does  all 
that  without  any  qualifications  or  artistic  transitions,  which 
after  all  only  aid  the  understanding  and  impede  the  free 
flight  of  the  fancy. 

For  her  fancy  everything  in  nature  is  alive  and  animate. 
I  often  recall  with  pleasure  the  first  time  she  ever  saw  and 
felt  of  a  doll.  She  was  not  more  than  a  year  old.  A  divine 
smile  lighted  up  her  little  face,  as  she  pressed  an  affection- 
ate kiss  on  the  painted  wooden  lips.  Surely  there  lies  deep 
in  the  nature  of  man  an  impulse  to  eat  anything  he  loves, 
to  lift  to  his  mouth  every  new  object  and  there,  if  possible, 
reduce  it  to  its  original,  constituent  parts.  A  wholesome 
thirst  for  knowledge  impels  him  to  seize  the  object,  pene- 
trate into  its  interior  and  bite  it  to  pieces.  On  the  other 
hand,  touching  stops  at  the  surface,  while  grasping  affords 
only  imperfect,  mediate  knowledge.  Nevertheless  it  is  a 
very  interesting  spectacle,  when  a  bright  child  catches  sight 
of  another  child,  to  watch  her  feel  of  it  and  strive  to  orient 
herself  by  means  of  those  antennae  of  the  reason.  The 
strange  baby  creeps  quietly  away  and  hides  himself,  while 


134  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

the  little  philosopher  follows  him  up  and  goes  busily  on 
with  her  manual  investigation. 

But,  to  be  sure,  mind,  wit  and  originality  are  just  as  rare 
in  children  as  in  adults.  All  this,  however,  does  not  belong 
here,  and  is  leading  me  beyond  the  bounds  of  my  purpose. 
For  this  sketch  proposes  merely  to  portray  an  ideal,  an 
ideal  which  I  would  ever  keep  before  my  eyes,  so  that  in 
this  little  artistic  volmne  of  beautiful  and  elegant  phi- 
losophy^ I  may  not  wander  away  from  the  delicate  line  of 
propriety;  and  so  that  you  will  forgive  me  in  advance  for 
the  audacious  liberties  that  I  am  going  to  take,  or  at  least 
you  will  be  able  to  judge  them  from  a  higher  viewpoint. 

Am  I  wrong,  think  you,  in  seeking  for  morality  in 
children  —  for  delicacy  and  prettiness  of  thought  and  word? 

Now  look!  Dear  little  Wilhelmina  often  finds  inexpres- 
sible delight  in  lying  on  her  back  and  kicking  her  little  legs 
in  the  air,  unconcerned  about  her  clothes  or  about  the 
judgment  of  the  world.  If  Wilhelmina  does  that,  what  is 
there  that  I  may  not  do,  since  I,  by  Heaven,  am  a  man  and 
under  no  obligation  to  be  more  modest  than  this  most 
modest  of  all  feminine  creatures?  Oh,  enviable  freedom 
from  prejudice !  Do  you,  too,  dear  friend,  cast  it  from  you, 
all  the  remnants  of  false  modesty ;  just  as  I  have  often  torn 
off  your  odious  clothes  and  scattered  them  about  in  lovely 
anarchy.  And  if,  perhaps,  this  little  romance  of  my  life 
should  seem  to  you  too  wild,  just  think  to  yourself:  He 
is  only  a  child  —  and  take  his  innocent  wantonness  with 
motherly  forbearance  and  let  him  caress  you. 

If  you  will  not  be  too  particular  about  the  plausibility  and 
inner  significance  of  an  allegory,  and  are  prepared  for  as 
much  awkwardness  in  it  as  one  might  expect  in  the  confes- 
sions of  an  awkward  man,  provided  only  that  the  costume 
is  correct,  I  should  like  to  relate  to  you  here  one  of  my 
waking  dreams,  inasmuch  as  it  leads  to  the  same  result  as 
my  sketch  of  little  Wilhelmina.* 

*  Here   follows,   in   the  original,   a   so-called   "Allegory   of   Impudence." — 
Tbanslator's  Note. 


LUCINDA  135 

An  Idyl  of  Idleness 

"  Behold,  I  am  my  own  teacher,  and  a  god  hath  planted 
all  sorts  of  melodies  in  my  soul."  This  I  may  boldly  say, 
now  that  I  am  not  talking  about  the  joyous  science  of 
poetry,  but  about  the  godlike  art  of  idleness.  And  with 
whom  indeed  should  I  rather  talk  and  think  about  idleness 
than  with  myself.  So  I  spoke  also  in  that  immortal  hour 
when  my  guardian  genius  inspired  me  to  preach  the  high 
gospel  of  true  joy  and  love:  ''Oh,  idleness,  idleness! 
Thou  art  the  very  soul  of  innocence  and  inspiration.  The 
blessed  spirits  do  breathe  thee,  and  blessed  indeed  is  he 
who  hath  and  cherisheth  thee,  thou  sacred  jewel,  thou  sole 
and  only  fragment  of  godlikeness  brought  forth  by  us  from 
Paradise. ' ' 

When  I  thus  communed  with  myself  I  was  sitting,  like  a 
pensive  maiden  in  a  thoughtless  romance,  by  the  side  of  a 
brook,  watching  the  wavelets  as  they  passed.  They  flowed 
by  as  smooth  and  quiet  and  sentimental  as  if  Narcissus 
were  about  to  see  his  reflection  on  the  clear  surface  and 
become  intoxicated  with  beautiful  egoism.  They  might 
also  have  enticed  me  to  lose  myself  deeper  and  deeper  in 
the  inner  perspective  of  my  mind,  were  not  my  nature  so 
perpetually  unselfish  and  practical  that  even  my  specula- 
tions never  concern  themselves  about  anything  but  the  gen- 
eral good.  So  I  fell  to  thinking,  among  other  things,  while 
my  mind  was  relaxed  by  a  comfortable  laziness  and  my 
limbs  by  the  powerful  heat,  of  the  possibility  of  a  lasting 
embrace.  I  thought  out  ways  of  prolonging  the  time  of 
our  being  together  and  of  avoiding  in  the  future  those 
childishly  pathetic  expressions  of  pain  over  sudden  part- 
ing, and  of  finding  pleasure,  as  hitherto,  in  the  comic  side 
of  Fate 's  inevitable  and  unchangeable  decree  that  separate 
we  must.  And  only  after  the  power  of  my  reason,  laboring 
over  the  unattainableness  of  my  ideal,  broke  and  relaxed, 
did  I  give  myself  over  to  a  stream  of  thoughts.  I  listened 
eagerly  to  all  the  motley  fairy-tales  with  which  imagination 
and  desire,  like  irresistible  sirens  in  my  breast,  charmed 


136  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

my  senses.  It  did  not  occur  to  me  to  criticise  the  seductive 
illusion  as  ignoble,  although  I  well  knew  that  it  was  for  the 
most  part  a  beautiful  lie.  The  soft  music  of  the  fantasy- 
seemed  to  fill  the  gaps  in  my  longing.  I  gratefully  observed 
this  and  resolved  to  repeat  for  us  in  the  future  by  my  own 
inventiveness  that  which  good  fortune  had  given  me,  and 
to  begin  for  you  this  poem  of  truth.  And  thus  the  original 
germ  of  this  wonderful  growth  of  caprice  and  love  came 
into  being.  And  just  as  freely  as  it  sprouted  did  I  intend 
it  should  grow  up  and  run  wild;  and  never  from  love  of 
order  and  economy  shall  I  trim  off  any  of  its  profuse 
abundance  of  superfluous  leaves  and  shoots. 

Like  a  wise  man  of  the  East,  I  had  fallen  into  a  holy 
lethargy  and  calm  contemplation  of  the  everlasting  sub- 
stances, more  especially  of  yours  and  mine.  Greatness  in 
repose,  most  people  say,  is  the  highest  aim  of  plastic  art. 
And  so,  without  any  distinct  purpose  and  without  any  un- 
seemly effort,  I  thought  out  and  bodied  forth  our  ever- 
lasting substances  in  this  dignified  style.  I  looked  back  and 
saw  how  gentle  sleep  overcame  us  in  the  midst  of  our 
embrace.  Now  and  then  one  of  us  would  open  an  eye,  smile 
at  the  sweet  slumber  of  the  other,  and  wake  up  just  enough 
to  venture  a  jesting  remark  and  a  gentle  caress.  But  ere 
the  wanton  play  thus  begun  was  ended,  we  would  both 
sink  back  into  the  blissful  lap  of  half-conscious  self- 
forgetfulness. 

With  the  greatest  indignation  1  then  thought  of  the  bad 
men  who  would  abolish  sleep.  They  have  probably  never 
slept,  and  likewise  never  lived.  Why  are  gods  gods,  except 
because  they  deliberately  do  nothing;  because  they  under- 
stand that  art  and  are  masters  of  it?  And  how  the  poets, 
the  sages  and  the  saints  strive  to  be  like  the  gods,  in  that 
respect  as  in  others!  How  they  vie  with  one  another  in 
praise  of  solitude,  of  leisure,  of  liberal  freedom  from  care 
and  of  inactivity!  And  they  are  right  in  doing  so;  for 
everything  that  is  good  and  beautiful  in  life  is  already 
there  and  maintains  itself  by  its  own  strength.    Why  then 


LUCINDA  137 

this  vague  striving  and  pushing  forward  without  rest  or 
goal?  Can  this  storm  and  stress  give  form  and  nourishing 
juice  to  the  everliving  plant  of  humankind,  that  grows  and 
fashions  itself  in  quiet?  This  empty,  restless  activity  is 
only  a  bad  habit  of  the  north  and  brings  nothing  but  ennui 
for  oneself  and  for  others.  And  with  what  does  it  begin 
and  end  except  with  antipathy  to  the  world  in  general, 
which  is  now  such  a  common  feeling?  Inexperienced  vanity 
does  not  suspect  that  it  indicates  only  lack  of  reason  and 
sense,  but  regards  it  as  a  high-minded  discontent  with  the 
universal  ugliness  of  the  world  and  of  life,  of  which  it 
really  has  not  yet  the  slightest  presentiment.  It  could  not 
be  otherwise ;  for  industry  and  utility  are  the  death-angels 
which,  with  fiery  swords,  prevent  the  return  of  man  into 
Paradise.  Only  when  composed  and  at  ease  in  the  holy 
calm  of  true  passivity  can  one  think  over  his  entire  being 
and  get  a  view  of  life  and  the  world. 

How  is  it  that  w^e  think  and  compose  at  all,  except  by 
surrendering  ourselves  completely  to  the  influence  of  some 
genius?  Speaking  and  fashioning  are  after  all  only  inci- 
dentals in  all  arts  and  sciences ;  thinking  and  imagining  are 
the  essentials,  and  they  are  only  possible  in  a  passive  state. 
To  be  sure  it  is  intentional,  arbitrary,  one-sided,  but  still  a 
passive  state.  The  more  beautiful  the  climate  we  live  in, 
the  more  passive  we  are.  Only  the  Italians  know  what  it  is 
to  walk,  and  only  the  Orientals  to  recline.  And  where  do 
we  find  the  human  spirit  more  delicately  and  sweetly  de- 
veloped than  in  India?  Everywhere  it  is  the  privilege  of 
being  idle  that  distinguishes  the  noble  from  the  common; 
it  is  the  true  principle  of  nobility.  Finally,  where  is  the 
greater  and  more  lasting  enjoyment,  the  greater  power  and 
will  to  enjoy?  Among  women,  whose  nature  we  call  pas- 
sive, or  among  men,  in  whom  the  transition  from  sudden 
wrath  to  ennui  is  quicker  than  that  from  good  to  evil  ? 

Satisfied  with  the  enjoyment  of  my  existence,  I  proposed 
to  raise  myself  above  all  its  finite,  and  therefore  contemp- 
tible, aims  and  objects.    Nature  itself  seemed  to  confirm  me 


138  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

in  this  undertaking,  and,  as  it  were,  to  exhort  me  in  many- 
voiced  choral  songs  to  further  idleness.  And  now  suddenly 
a  new  vision  presented  itself.  I  imagined  myself  invisible 
in  a  theatre.  On  one  side  I  saw  all  the  well-kno\\Ti  boards, 
lights  and  painted  scenery;  on  the  other  a  vast  throng  of 
spectators,  a  veritable  ocean  of  curious  faces  and  sympa- 
thetic eyes.  In  the  foreground,  on  the  right,  was  Prome- 
theus, in  the  act  of  fashioning  men.  He  was  bound  by  a 
long  chain  and  was  working  very  fast  and  very  hard. 
Beside  him  stood  several  monstrous  fellows  who  were  con- 
stantly whipping  and  goading  him  on.  There  was  also  an 
abundance  of  glue  and  other  materials  about,  and  he  was 
getting  fire  out  of  a  large  coal-pan.  On  the  other  side  was 
a  figure  of  the  deified  Hercules,  with  Hebe  in  his  lap.  On 
the  stage  in  the  foreground  a  crowd  of  youthful  forms  were 
laughing  and  running  about,  all  of  whom  were  very  happy 
and  did  not  merely  seem  to  live.  The  youngest  looked  like 
amorettes,  the  older  ones  like  images  of  women.  But  each 
one  of  them  had  his  own  peculiar  manner  and  a  striking 
originality  of  expression;  and  they  all  bore  a  certain  re- 
semblance to  the  Christian  painters '  and  poets '  idea  of  the 
devil  —  one  might  have  called  them  little  Satans.  One  of 
the  smallest  said; 

**  He  who  does  not  despise,  cannot  respect;  one  can  only 
do  either  boundlessly,  and  good  tone  consists  only  in  play- 
ing with  men.  And  so  is  not  a  certain  amount  of  malice  an 
essential  part  of  harmonious  culture?  " 

' '  Nothing  is  more  absurd, ' '  said  another,  ' '  than  when 
the  moralists  reproach  you  about  your  egoism.  They  are 
altogether  wrong;  for  what  god,  who  is  not  his  own  god, 
can  deserve  respect  from  man?  You  are,  to  be  sure,  mis- 
taken in  thinking  that  you  have  an  ego ;  but  if,  in  the  mean- 
time, you  identify  it  with  your  body,  your  name  and  your 
property,  you  thereby  at  least  make  ready  a  place  for  it, 
in  case  by  any  chance  an  ego  should  come." 

"And  this  Prometheus  you  can  all  hold  in  deep  rever- 
ence," said  one  of  the  tallest.  "  He  has  made  you  all  and 
is  constantly  making  more  like  you. ' ' 


LUCINDA  139 

And  in  fact  just  as  soon  as  each  new  man  was  finished, 
the  devils  put  him  down  with  all  the  rest  who  were  looking 
on,  and  immediately  it  was  impossible  to  distinguish  him 
from  the  others,  so  much  alike  were  they  all. 

*  *  The  mistake  he  makes  is  in  his  method, ' '  continued  the 
Sataniscus.  *  *  How  can  one  want  to  do  nothing  but  fashion 
men  1    Those  are  not  the  right  tools  he  has. ' ' 

And  thereat  he  pointed  to  a  rough  figure  of  the  God  of 
the  Gardens,  which  stood  in  the  back  part  of  the  stage 
between  an  Amor  and  a  very  beautiful  naked  Venus. 

* '  In  regard  to  that  our  friend  Hercules  had  better  views, 
who  could  occupy  fifty  maidens  in  a  single  night  for  the 
welfare  of  humanity,  and  all  of  them  heroic  maids  too. 
He  did  those  labors  of  his,  too,  and  slew  many  a  furious 
monster.  But  the  goal  of  his  career  was  always  a  noble 
leisure,  and  for  that  reason  he  has  gained  entrance  to 
Olympus.  Not  so,  however,  with  this  Prometheus,  the  in- 
ventor of  education  and  enlightenment.  To  him  you  owe 
it  that  you  can  never  be  quiet  and  are  always  on  the  move. 
Hence  it  is  also,  when  you  have  absolutely  nothing  to  do, 
that  you  foolishly  aspire  to  develop  character  and  observe 
and  study  one  another.  It  is  a  vile  business.  But  Pro- 
metheus, for  having  misled  man  to  toil,  now  has  to  toil 
himself,  whether  he  wants  to  or  not.  He  will  soon  get  very 
tired  of  it,  and  never  again  will  he  be  freed  from  his 
chains. ' ' 

When  the  spectators  heard  this,  they  broke  out  into  tears 
and  jumped  upon  the  stage  to  assure  their  father  of  their 
heartfelt  sympathy.  And  thus  the  allegorical  comedy 
vanished. 

Constancy  and  Play 

**  Of  course  you  are  alone,  Lucinda?  '* 

"  I  do  not  know  —  perhaps  —  I  think — ' ' 

' '  Please !  please !  dear  Lucinda.  You  know  very  well 
that  when  little  Wilhelmina  says  '  please !  please !  '  and  you 
do  not  do  at  once  what  she  wants,  she  cries  louder  and 
louder  until  she  gets  her  way. ' ' 


140  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

"  So  it  was  to  tell  me  that  that  you  rushed  into  my  room 
so  out  of  breath  and  frightened  me  so  ?  " 

"  Do  not  be  angry  with  me,  sweet  lady,  I  beg  of  you !  Oh, 
my  child!  Lovely  creature!  Be  a  good  girl  and  do  not 
reproach  me !  ' ' 

' '  Well,  I  suppose  you  will  soon  be  asking  me  to  close  the 
door?  " 

''So?  I  will  answer  that  directly.  But  first  a  nice 
long  kiss,  and  then  another,  and  then  some  more,  and  after 
that  more  still. ' ' 

"  Oh !  You  must  not  kiss  me  that  way  —  if  you  want  me 
to  keep  my  senses !    It  makes  one  think  bad  thoughts." 

*  *  You  deserve  to.  Are  you  really  capable  of  laughing, 
my  peevish  lady?  Who  would  have  thought  so?  But  I 
know  very  well  you  laugh  only  because  you  can  laugh  at  me. 
You  do  not  do  it  from  pleasure.  For  who  ever  looked  so 
solemn  as  you  did  just  now  —  like  a  Roman  senator?  And 
you  might  have  looked  ravishing,  dear  child,  with  those  holy 
dark  eyes,  and  your  long  black  hair  shining  in  the  evening 
sunlight  —  if  you  had  not  sat  there  like  a  judge  on  the 
bench.  Heavens !  I  actually  started  back  when  I  saw  how 
you  were  looking  at  me.  A  little  more  and  I  should  have 
forgotten  the  most  important  thing,  and  I  am  all  confused. 
But  why  do  you  not  talk?    Am  I  disagreeable  to  you?  " 

* '  Well,  that  is  funny,  you  surly  Julius.  As  if  you-  ever  let 
any  one  say  anything !  Your  tenderness  flows  today  like  a 
spring  shower." 

*  *  Like  your  talk  in  the  night. ' ' 
**  Oh  sir,  let  my  neckcloth  be." 

* '  Let  it  be  ?  Not  a  bit  of  it !  What  is  the  use  of  a  miser- 
able, stupid  neckcloth?    Prejudice!    Away  with  it!" 

*'  If  only  no  one  disturbs  us!  " 

**  There  she  goes  again,  looking  as  if  she  wanted  to  cry  I 
You  are  well,  are  you  not?  What  makes  your  heart  beat 
so?  Come,  let  me  kiss  it!  Oh,  yes,  you  spoke  a  moment 
ago  about  closing  the  door.  Very  well,  but  not  that  way, 
not  here.    Come,  let  us  run  down  through  the  garden  to  the 


LUCINDA  141 

smmner-house,  where  the  flowers  are.  Cornel  Oh,  do  not 
make  me  wait  so!  " 

"As  you  wish,  sir." 

"  I  cannot  understand — you  are  so  odd  today.** 

"  Now,  my  dear  friend,  if  you  are  going  to  begin  moral- 
izing, we  miglit  just  as  well  go  back  again.  I  prefer  to  give 
you  just  one  more  kiss  and  run  on  ahead  of  you. ' ' 

**  Oh,  not  so  fast,  Lucinda !  My  moralizing  will  not  over- 
take you.    You  will  fall,  love !  ' ' 

**  I  did  not  wish  to  make  you  wait  any  longer.  Now  we 
are  here.    And  you  came  pretty  fast  yourself." 

''And  you  are  very  obedient!  But  this  is  no  time  to 
quarrel. ' ' 

"Be  still!    Be  still!" 

*  *  See !  Here  is  a  soft,  cosy  place,  with  everything  as  it 
should  be.  This  time,  if  you  do  not — well,  there  will  be  no 
excuse  for  you. ' ' 

**  Will  you  not  at  least  lower  the  curtain  first?  " 

**  You  are  right.  The  light  will  be  much  more  charming 
so.  How  beautiful  your  skin  shines  in  the  red  light !  Why 
are  you  so  cold,  Lucinda  1  ' ' 

"  Dearest,  put  the  hyacinths  further  away,  their  odor 
sickens  me." 

* '  How  solid  and  firm,  how  soft  and  smooth !  That  is 
harmonious  development. ' ' 

' '  Oh  no,  Julius !  Please  don 't  I  I  beg  of  you !  I  will  not 
allow  it!" 

"  May  I  not  feel  *  *  *.  Oh,  let  me  listen  to  the  beat- 
ing of  your  heart !  Let  me  cool  my  lips  in  the  snow  of  your 
bosom !  Do  not  push  me  away !  I  will  have  my  revenge  I 
Hold  me  tighter!  Kiss  upon  kiss!  No,  not  a  lot  of  short 
ones !  One  everlasting  one !  Take  my  whole  soul  and  give 
me  yours !  Oh,  beautiful  and  glorious  Together !  Are  we 
not  children?  Tell  me!  How  could  you  be  so  cold  and 
indifferent  at  first,  and  then  afterward  draw  me  closer  to 
you,  making  a  face  the  while  as  if  something  were  hurting 
you,  as  if  you  were  reluctant  to  return  my  ardor  ?    What  is 


142  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

the  matter?  Are  you  crying?  Do  not  hide  your  face !  Look 
at  me,  dearest!  " 

'*  Oh,  let  me  lie  here  beside  you  —  I  cannot  look  into 
your  eyes.  It  was  very  naughty  of  me,  Julius!  Can  you 
ever  forgive  me,  darling?  You  will  not  desert  me,  will  you? 
Can  you  still  love  me?  " 

'  *  Come  to  me,  sweet  lady  —  here,  close  to  my  heart.  Do 
you  remember  how  nice  it  was,  not  long  ago,  when  you  cried 
in  my  arms,  and  how  it  relieved  you?  Tell  me  what  the 
matter  is  now.    You  are  not  angry  with  me?  " 

' '  I  am  angry  with  myself.  I  could  beat  myself !  To  be 
sure,  it  would  have  served  you  right.  And  if  ever  again, 
sir,  you  conduct  yourself  so  like  a  husband,  I  shall  take 
better  care  that  you  find  me  like  a  wife.  You  may  be 
assured  of  that.  I  cannot  help  laughing,  it  took  me  so  by 
surprise.  But  do  not  imagine,  sir,  that  you  are  so  terribly 
lovable  —  this  time  it  was  by  my  own  will  that  I  broke  my 
resolution. ' ' 

''  The  first  mil  and  the  last  is  always  the  best.  It  is 
just  because  women  usually  say  less  than  they  mean  that 
they  sometimes  do  more  than  tliey  intend.  That  is  no  more 
than  right;  good  will  leads  you  women  astray.  Good  will 
is  a  very  nice  thing,  but  the  bad  part  of  it  is  that  it  is 
always  there,  even  when  you  do  not  want  it." 

''  That  is  a  beautiful  mistake.  But  you  men  are  full  of 
bad  will  and  you  persist  in  it." 

*  *  Oh  no !  If  we  seem  to  be  obstinate,  it  is  only  because 
we  cannot  be  otherwise,  not  because  our  will  is  bad.  We 
cannot,  because  we  do  not  mil  properly.  Hence  it  is  not 
bad  will,  but  lack  of  will.  And  to  whom  is  the  fault 
attributable  but  to  you  women,  who  have  such  a  super- 
abundance of  good  will  and  keep  it  all  to  yourselves,  un- 
willing to  share  it  mth  us.  But  it  happened  quite  against 
my  will  that  we  fell  a-talking  about  will  —  I  am  sure  I  do 
not  know  why  we  are  doing  it.  Still,  it  is  much  better  for 
me  to  vent  my  feelings  by  talking  than  by  smashing  the 
beautiful  chinaware.    It  gave  me  a  chance  to  recover  from 


LUCINDA  143 

my  astonishment  over  your  unexpected  compunction,  your 
excellent  discourse,  and  your  laudable  resolution.  Really, 
this  is  one  of  the  strangest  pranks  that  you  have  ever  given 
me  the  honor  of  witnessing;  so  far  as  I  can  remember,  it 
has  been  several  weeks  since  you  have  talked  by  daylight 
in  such  solemn  and  unctuous  periods  as  you  used  in  your 
little  sermon  today.  Would  you  mind  translating  your 
meaning  into  prose  ?  ' ' 

**  Really,  have  you  forgotten  already  about  yesterday 
evening  and  the  interesting  company  ?  Of  course  I  did  not 
know  that." 

*  *  Oh !  And  so  that  is  why  you  are  so  out  of  sorts  — 
because  I  talked  with  Amalia  too  much?  " 

**  Talk  as  much  as  you  please  with  anybody  you  please. 
But  you  must  be  nice  to  me  —  that  I  insist  on." 

* '  You  spoke  so  very  loud ;  the  stranger  was  standing 
close  by,  and  I  was  nervous  and  did  not  know  what  else 
to  do." 

* '  Except  to  be  rude  in  your  awkwardness. ' ' 

' '  Forgive  me !  I  plead  guilty.  You  know  how  embar- 
rassed I  am  with  you  in  society.  It  always  hurts  me  to 
talk  with  you  in  the  presence  of  others. ' ' 

'*  How  nicely  he  manages  to  excuse  himself!  " 

'  *  The  next  time  do  not  pass  it  over !  Look  out  and  be 
strict  with  me.  But  see  what  you  have  done !  Isn  't  it  a 
desecration?  Oh  no!  It  isn't  possible,  it  is  more  than 
that.     You  will  have  to  confess  it  —  you  were  jealous." 

**A11  the  evening  you  rudely  forgot  about  me.  I  began 
to  write  it  all  out  for  you  today,  but  tore  it  up. ' ' 

"And  then,  when  I  came?  " 

' '  Your  being  in  such  an  awful  hurry  annoyed  me. ' ' 

"  Could  you  love  me  if  I  were  not  so  inflammable  and 
electric?  Are  you  not  so  too?  Have  you  forgotten  our 
first  embrace?  In  one  minute  love  comes  and  lasts  for- 
ever, or  it  does  not  come  at  all.  Or  do  you  think  that  joy 
is  accumulated  like  money  and  other  material  things,  by 
consistent  behavior?     Great  happiness  is  like  music  coming 


144  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

out  of  the  air  —  it  appears  and  surprises  us  and  then  van- 
ishes again." 

**And  thus  it  was  you  appeared  to  me,  darling!  But  you 
will  not  vanish,  will  you?     You  shall  not!     I  say  it!  " 

*'  I  will  not,  I  will  stay  with  you  now  and  for  all  time. 
Listen!  I  feel  a  strong  desire  to  hold  a  long  discourse 
with  you  on  jealousy.  But  first  we  ought  to  conciliate  the 
offended  gods." 

* '  Rather,  first  the  discourse  and  afterward  the  gods. ' ' 

"  You  are  right,  we  are  not  yet  worthy  of  them.  It  takes 
you  a  long  time  to  get  over  it  after  you  have  been  disturbed 
and  annoyed  about  something.  How  nice  it  is  that  you  are 
so  sensitive !  ' ' 

*  *  I  am  no  more  sensitive  than  you  are  —  only  in  a  differ- 
ent way. ' ' 

* '  Well  then,  tell  me !  I  am  not  jealous  —  how  does  it 
happen  that  you  are  1 ' ' 

* '  Am  I,  unless  I  have  cause  to  be  ?     Answer  me  that ! ' ' 

*'  I  do  not  know  what  you  mean." 

' '  Well,  I  am  not  really  jealous.  But  tell  me :  What  were 
you  talking  about  all  yesterday  evening?  " 

''So?  It  is  Amalia  of  whom  you  are  jealous?  Is  it 
possible?  That  nonsense?  I  did  not  talk  about  anything 
with  her,  and  that  was  the  funny  part  of  it.  Did  I  not 
talk  just  as  long  with  Antonio,  whom  a  short  time  ago  I 
used  to  see  almost  every  day?  " 

' '  You  want  me  to  believe  that  you  talk  in  the  same  way 
with  the  coquettish  Amalia  that  you  do  with  the  quiet, 
serious  Antonio.  Of  course!  It  is  nothing  more  than  a 
case  of  clear,  pure  friendship!  " 

' '  Oh  no,  you  must  not  believe  that  —  I  do  not  wish  you  to. 
That  is  not  true.  How  can  you  credit  me  with  being  so 
foolish?  For  it  is  a  very  foolish  thing  indeed  for  two 
people  of  opposite  sex  to  form  and  conceive  any  such  rela- 
tion as  pure  friendship.  In  Amalia 's  case  it  is  nothing 
more  than  playing  that  I  love  her.  I  should  not  care  any- 
thing about  her  at  all,  if  she  were  not  a  little  coquettish. 


LUCINDA  145 

Would  that  there  were  more  like  her  in  our  circle!  Just 
in  fun,  one  must  really  love  all  the  ladies." 

* '  Julius,  I  believe  you  are  going  completely  crazy  I  ' ' 

' '  Now  understand  me  aright  —  I  do  not  really  mean  all 
of  them,  but  all  of  them  who  are  lovable  and  happen  to 
come  one's  way." 

''  That  is  nothing  more  than  what  the  French  call  gal- 
anterie  and  coquetterie.^^ 

"  Nothing  more  —  except  that  I  think  of  it  as  something 
beautiful  and  clever.  And  then  men  ought  to  know  what 
the  ladies  are  doing  and  what  they  want;  and  that  is  rarely 
the  case.  A  fine  pleasantry  is  apt  to  be  transformed  in 
their  hands  into  coarse  seriousness. ' ' 

'*  This  loving  just  in  fun  is  not  at  all  a  funny  thing  to 
look  at." 

''  That  is  not  the  fault  of  the  fun  —  it  is  just  miserable 
jealousy.  Forgive  me,  dearest  —  I  do  not  wish  to  get 
excited,  but  I  must  confess  that  I  cannot  understand  how 
any  one  can  be  jealous.  For  lovers  do  not  offend  each 
other,  but  do  things  to  please  each  other.  Hence  it  must 
come  from  uncertainty,  absence  of  love,  and  unfaithfulness 
to  oneself.  For  me  happiness  is  assured,  and  love  is  one 
with  constancy.  To  be  sure,  it  is  a  different  matter  with 
people  who  love  in  the  ordinary  way.  The  man  loves  only 
the  race  in  his  wife,  the  woman  in  her  husband  only  the 
degree  of  his  ability  and  social  position,  and  both  love  in 
their  children  only  their  creation  and  their  property.  Under 
those  circumstances  fidelity  comes  to  be  a  merit,  a  virtue, 
and  jealousy  is  in  order.  For  they  are  quite  right  in 
tacitly  believing  that  there  are  many  like  themselves,  and 
that  one  man  is  about  as  good  as  the  next,  and  none  of 
them  worth  very  much." 

''  You  look  upon  jealousy,  then,  as  nothing  but  empty 
vulgarity  and  lack  of  culture." 

*'  Yes,  or  rather  as  mis-culture  and  perversity,  which  is 
just  as  bad  or  still  worse.  According  to  that  system  the 
best  thing  for  a  man  to  do  is  to  marry  of  set  purpose  out 

Vol.  IV— 10 


146  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

of  sheer  obligingness  and  courtesy.  And  certainly  for  such 
folk  it  must  be  no  less  convenient  than  entertaining,  to  live 
out  their  lives  together  in  a  state  of  mutual  contempt. 
Women  especially  are  capable  of  acquiring  a  genuine  pas- 
sion for  marriage;  and  when  one  of  them  finds  it  to  her 
liking,  it  easily  happens  that  she  marries  half  a  dozen  in 
succession,  either  spiritually  or  bodily.  And  the  oppor- 
tunity is  never  wanting  for  a  man  and  wife  to  be  delicate 
for  a  change,  and  talk  a  great  deal  about  friendship." 

**  You  used  to  talk  as  if  you  regarded  us  women  as 
incapable  of  friendship.     Is  that  really  your  opinion?  " 

**  Yes,  but  the  incapability,  I  think,  lies  more  in  the 
friendship  than  in  you.  Whatever  you  love  at  all,  you  love 
indivisibly;  for  instance,  a  sweetheart  or  a  baby.  With 
you  even  a  sisterly  relation  would  assume  this  character." 

* '  You  are  right  there. '  * 

"  For  you  friendship  is  too  many-sided  and  one-sided. 
It  has  to  be  absolutely  spiritual  and  have  definite,  fixed 
bounds.  This  boundedness  would,  only  in  a  more  refined 
way,  be  just  as  fatal  to  your  character  as  would  sheer 
sensuality  without  love.  For  society,  on  the  other  hand, 
it  is  too  serious,  too  profound,  too  holy." 

**  Cannot  people,  then,  talk  with  each  other  regardless  of 
whether  they  are  men  or  women?  " 

**  That  might  make  society  rather  serious.  At  best,  it 
might  form  an  interesting  club.  You  understand  what  I 
mean :  it  would  be  a  great  gain,  if  people  could  talk  freely, 
and  were  neither  too  wild  nor  yet  too  stiff.  The  finest  and 
best  part  would  always  be  lacking — that  which  is  every- 
where the  spirit  and  soul  of  good  society  —  namely,  that 
playing  with  love  and  that  love  of  play  which,  without  the 
finer  sense,  easily  degenerates  into  jocosity.  And  for  that 
reason  I  defend  the  ambiguities  too." 

"  Do  you  do  that  in  play  or  by  way  of  joke?  " 

*'  No!    No!    I  do  it  in  all  seriousness." 

''  But  surely  not  as  seriously  and  solemnly  as  Pauline 
and  her  lover?"" 


LUCINDA  147 

**  Heaven  forbid!  I  really  believe  they  would  ring  the 
church-bell  when  they  embrace  eacli  other,  if  it  were  only 
proper.  Oh,  it  is  true,  my  friend,  man  is  naturally  a 
serious  animal.  We  must  work  against  this  shameful  and 
abominable  propensity  with  all  our  strength,  and  attack 
it  from  all  sides.  To  that  end  ambiguities  are  also  good, 
except  that  they  are  so  seldom  ambiguous.  When  they  are 
not  and  allow  only  one  interpretation,  that  is  not  immoral, 
it  is  only  obtrusive  and  vulgar.  Frivolous  talk  must  be 
spiritual  and  dainty  and  modest,  so  far  as  possible ;  for  the 
rest  as  wicked  as  you  choose. '  * 

*  *  That  is  well  enough,  but  what  place  have  your  ambigui- 
ties in  society?  " 

* '  To  keep  the  conversations  fresh,  just  as  salt  keeps  food 
fresh.  The  question  is  not  why  we  say  them,  but  how  we 
say  them.  It  would  be  rude  indeed  to  talk  with  a  charming 
lady  as  if  she  were  a  sexless  Amphibium.  It  is  a  duty  and 
an  obligation  to  allude  constantly  to  what  she  is  and  is 
going  to  be.  It  is  really  a  comical  situation,  considering 
how  indelicate,  stiff  and  guilty  society  is,  to  be  an  inno- 
cent girl." 

**  That  reminds  me  of  the  famous  Buffo,  who,  while  he 
was  always  making  others  laugh,  was  so  sad  and  solemn 
himself. ' ' 

*'  Society  is  a  chaos  which  can  be  brought  into  har- 
monious order  only  by  wit.  If  one  does  not  jest  and  toy 
with  the  elements  of  passion,  it  forms  thick  masses  and 
darkens  everything." 

"  Then  there  must  be  passion  in  the  air  here,  for  it  is 
almost  dark." 

*'  Surely  you  have  closed  your  eyes,  lady  of  my  heart! 
Otherwise  the  light  in  them  would  brighten  the  whole 
room. ' ' 

' '  I  wonder,  Julius,  who  is  the  more  passionate,  you  or  I?  " 

*  *  Both  of  us  are  passionate  enough.  If  that  were  not  so, 
I  should  not  want  to  live.  And  see !  That  is  why  I  could 
reconcile  myself  to  jealousy.     There  is  everything  in  love 


148  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

—  friendship,  pleasant  intercourse,  sensuality,  and  even 
passion.  Everything  must  be  in  it,  and  one  thing  must 
strengthen,  mitigate,  enliven  and  elevate  the  other." 

' '  Let  me  embrace  you,  darling. ' ' 

**  But  only  on  one  condition  can  I  allow  you  to  be  jealous. 
I  have  often  felt  that  a  little  bit  of  cultured  and  refined 
anger  does  not  ill-become  a  man.  Perhaps  it  is  the  same 
way  with  you  in  regard  to  jealousy." 

**  Agreed!     Then  I  do  not  have  to  abjure  it  altogether." 

*'  If  only  you  always  manifest  it  as  prettily  and  as  wittily 
as  you  did  today. ' ' 

''  Did  I?  Well,  if  next  time  you  get  into  so  pretty  and 
witty  a  passion  about  it,  I  sliall  say  so  and  praise  you 
for  it." 

*  *  Are  we  not  worthy  now  to  conciliate  the  offended 
gods?" 

*  *  Yes,  if  your  discourse  is  entirely  finished ;  otherwise 
give  me  the  rest. ' '  * 

Metamorphoses 

The  childlike  spirit  slumbers  in  sweet  repose,  and  the 
kiss  of  the  loving  goddess  arouses  in  him  only  light  dreams. 
The  rose  of  shame  tinges  his  cheek ;  he  smiles  and  seems  to 
open  his  lips,  but  he  does  not  awaken  and  he  knows  not 
what  is  going  on  within  him.  Not  until  after  the  charm 
of  the  external  world,  multiplied  and  reinforced  by  an  inner 
echo,  has  completely  permeated  his  entire  being,  does  he 
open  his  eyes,  reveling  in  the  sun,  and  recall  to  mind  the 
magic  world  which  he  saw  in  the  gleam  of  the  pale  moon- 
light. The  wondrous  voice  that  awakened  him  is  still 
audible,  but  instead  of  answering  him  it  echoes  back  from 
external  objects.  And  if  in  childish  timidity  he  tries  to 
escape  from  the  mystery  of  his  existence,  seeking  the 
unknown  with  beautiful  curiosity,  he  hears  everywhere  only 
the  echo  of  his  own  longing. 

Thus  the  eye  sees  in  the  mirror  of  the  river  only  the 

*  Here  follows  in  the  original  a  biograpliic  sketch  called  "Apprenticeship  of 
Manliood.' —  Tkanslatob's  Note. 


LUCINDA  149 

reflection  of  the  blue  sky,  the  green  banks,  the  waving  trees, 
and  the  form  of  the  absorbed  gazer.  When  a  heart,  full 
of  unconscious  love,  finds  itself  where  it  hoped  to  find  love 
in  return,  it  is  struck  with  amazement.  But  we  soon  allow 
ourselves  to  be  lured  and  deceived  by  the  charm  of  the  view 
into  loving  our  o\\ai  reflection.  Then  has  the  moment  of 
winsomeness  come,  the  soul  fashions  its  envelop  again,  and 
breathes  the  final  breath  of  perfection  through  form.  The 
spirit  loses  itself  in  its  clear  depth  and  finds  itself  again, 
like  Narcissus,  as  a  flower. 

Love  is  higher  than  winsomeness,  and  how  soon  would 
the  flower  of  Beauty  mther  without  the  complementary 
birth  of  requited  love.  This  moment  the  kiss  of  Amor  and 
Psyche  is  the  rose  of  life.  The  inspired  Diotima  revealed 
to  Socrates  only  a  half  of  love.  Love  is  not  merely  a  quiet 
longing  for  the  infinite ;  it  is  also  the  holy  enjoyment  of  a 
beautiful  present.  It  is  not  merely  a  mixture,  a  transition 
from  the  mortal  to  the  immortal,  but  it  is  a  complete  union 
of  both.  There  is  a  pure  love,  an  indivisible  and  simple 
feeling,  without  the  slightest  interference  of  restless  striv- 
ing. Every  one  gives  the  same  as  he  takes,  one  just  like 
the  other,  all  is  balanced  and  completed  in  itself,  like  the 
everlasting  kiss  of  the  divine  children. 

By  the  magic  of  joy  the  grand  chaos  of  struggling  forms 
dissolves  into  a  harmonious  sea  of  oblivion.  Wlien  the 
ray  of  happiness  breaks  in  the  last  tear  of  longing.  Iris  is 
already  adorning  the  eternal  brow  of  heaven  with  the  deli- 
cate tints  of  her  many-colored  rainbow.  Sweet  dreams 
come  true,  and  the  pure  forms  of  a  neAv  generation  rise  up 
out  of  Lethe's  waves,  beautiful  as  Anadyomene,  and  exhibit 
their  limbs  in  the  place  of  the  vanished  darkness.  In 
golden  youth  and  innocence  time  and  man  change  in  the 
divine  peace  of  nature,  and  evermore  Aurora  comes  back 
more  beautiful  than  before. 

Not  hate,  as  the  wise  say,  but  love,  separates  people  and 
fashions  the  world;  and  only  in  its  light  can  we  find  this 
and  observe  it.     Only  in  the  answer  of  its  Thou  can  every 


150  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

I  completely  feel  its  endless  unity.  Then  the  understand- 
ing tries  to  unfold  the  inner  germ  of  godlikeness,  presses 
closer  and  closer  to  the  goal,  is  full  of  eagerness  to  fashion 
the  soul,  as  an  artist  fashions  his  one  beloved  masterpiece. 
In  the  mysteries  of  culture  the  spirit  sees  the  play  and  the 
laws  of  caprice  and  of  life.  The  statue  of  Pygmalion 
moves;  a  joyous  shudder  comes  over  the  astonished  artist 
in  the  consciousness  of  his  own  immortality,  and,  as  the 
eagle  bore  GanjTuede,  a  divine  hope  bears  him  on  its 
mighty  pinion  up  to  Oljnupus. 

TWO  LETTERS 
I 

Is  it  then  really  and  truly  so,  what  I  have  so  often 
quietly  wished  for  and  have  never  dared  to  express  f  I  see 
the  light  of  holy  joy  beaming  on  your  face,  and  you 
modestly  give  me  the  beautiful  promise.  You  are  to  be  a 
mother ! 

Farewell,  Longing,  and  thou,  gentle  Grief,  farewell;  the 
world  is  beautiful  again.  Now  I  love  the  earth,  and  the 
rosy  dawn  of  a  new  spring  lifts  its  radiant  head  over  my 
immortal  existence.  If  I  had  some  laurel,  I  would  bind  it 
around  your  brow  to  consecrate  you  to  new  and  serious 
duties ;  for  there  begins  now  for  you  another  life.  There- 
fore, give  to  me  the  wreath  of  myrtle.  It  befits  me  to 
adorn  myself  with  the  sjiubol  of  youthful  innocence,  since 
I  now  wander  in  Nature's  Paradise.  Hitherto  all  that 
held  us  together  was  love  and  passion.  Now  Nature  has 
united  us  more  firmly  with  an  indissoluble  bond.  Nature 
is  the  only  true  priestess  of  joy;  she  alone  knows  how  to 
tie  the  nuptial  knot,  not  with  empty  words  that  bring  no 
blessing,  but  with  fresh  blossoms  and  living  fruits  from  the 
fullness  of  her  power.  In  the  endless  succession  of  new 
forms  creating  Time  plaits  the  wreath  of  Eternity,  and 
blessed  is  he  whom  Fortune  selects  to  be  healthy  and  bear 
fruit.   We  are  not  sterile  flowers  among  other  living  beings ; 


LUCINDA  151 

the  gods  do  not  wish  to  exclude  us  from  the  great  con- 
catenation of  living  things,  and  are  giving  us  plain  tokens 
of  their  will. 

So  let  us  deserve  our  position  in  this  beautiful  world,  let 
us  bear  the  immortal  fruits  which  the  spirit  chooses  to 
create,  and  let  us  take  our  place  in  the  ranks  of  humanity. 
I  will  establish  myself  on  the  earth,  I  will  sow  and  reap 
for  the  future  as  well  as  for  the  present.  I  will  utilize  all 
my  strength  during  the  day,  and  in  the  evening  I  will 
refresh  myself  in  the  arms  of  the  mother,  who  will  be  eter- 
nally my  bride.  Our  son,  the  demure  little  rogue,  will  play 
around  us,  and  help  me  invent  mischief  at  your  expense. 


You  are  right;  we  must  certainly  buy  the  little  estate. 
I  am  glad  that  you  went  right  ahead  with  the  arrange- 
ments, without  waiting  for  my  decision.  Order  everything 
just  as  you  please;  but,  if  I  may  say  so,  do  not  have  it  too 
beautiful,  nor  yet  too  useful,  and,  above  all  things,  not  too 
elaborate. 

If  you  only  arrange  it  all  in  accordance  with  your  own  ^ 
judgment  and  do  not  allow  yourself  to  be  talked  into  the 
proper  and  conventional,  everything  will  be  quite  right,  and 
the  way  I  want  it  to  be ;  and  I  shall  derive  immense  enjoy- 
ment from  the  beautiful  property.  Hitherto  I  have  lived 
in  a  thoughtless  way  and  without  any  feeling  of  ownership ; 
I  have  tripped  lightly  over  the  earth  and  have  never  felt 
at  home  on  it.  Now  the  sanctuary  of  marriage  has  given 
me  the  rights  of  citizenship  in  the  state  of  nature.  I  am  no 
longer  suspended  in  the  empty  void  of  general  inspiration ; 
I  like  the  friendly  restraint,  I  see  the  useful  in  a  new  light, 
and  find  everything  truly  useful  that  unites  everlasting 
love  with  its  object  —  in  short  everything  that  serves  to 
bring  about  a  genuine  marriage.  External  things  imbue 
me  with  profound  respect,  if,  in  their  way,  they  are  good 
for  something;  and  you  will  some  day  hear  me  enthusias- 
tically praise  the  blessedness  of  home  and  the  merits  of 
domesticity. 


152  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

I  understand  now  your  preference  for  country  life,  I 
like  you  for  it  and  feel  as  you  do  about  it.  I  can  no  longer 
endure  to  see  these  ungainly  masses  of  everything  that  is 
corrupt  and  diseased  in  mankind;  and  when  I  think  about 
them  in  a  general  way  they  seem  to  me  like  wild  animals 
bound  by  a  chain,  so  that  they  cannot  even  vent  their  rage 
freely.  In  the  country,  people  can  live  side  by  side  with- 
out offensively  crowding  one  another.  If  everything  were 
as  it  ought  to  be,  beautiful  mansions  and  cosy  cottages 
would  there  adorn  the  green  earth,  as  do  the  fresh  shrubs 
and  flowers,  and  create  a  garden  worthy  of  the  gods. 

To  be  sure  we  shall  find  in  the  country  the  vulgarity  that 
prevails  everywhere.  There  ought  really  to  be  only  two 
social  classes,  the  culturing  and  the  cultured,  the  masculine 
and  the  feminine;  instead  of  all  artificial  society,  there 
should  be  a  grand  marriage  of  these  two  classes  and  uni- 
versal brotherhood  of  all  individuals.  In  place  of  that  we 
see  a  vast  amount  of  coarseness  and,  as  an  insignificant 
exception,  a  few  who  are  perverted  by  a  wrong  education. 
But  in  the  open  air  the  one  thing  which  is  beautiful  and 
good  cannot  be  suppressed  by  the  bad  masses  and  their 
show  of  omnipotence. 

Do  you  know  what  period  of  our  love  seems  to  me  par- 
ticularly beautiful  ?  To  be  sure,  it  is  all  beautiful  and  pure 
in  my  memory,  and  I  even  think  of  the  first  days  with  a 
sort  of  melancholy  delight.  But  to  me  the  most  cherished 
period  of  all  is  the  last  few  days,  when  we  were  living 
together  on  the  estate.  Another  reason  for  living  again 
in  the  country. 

One  thing  more.  Do  not  have  the  grapevines  trimmed  too 
close.  I  say  this  only  because  you  thought  they  were  grow- 
ing too  fast  and  luxuriantly,  and  because  it  might  occur  to 
you  to  want  a  perfectly  clear  view  of  the  house  on  all  sides. 
Also  the  green  grass-plot  must  stay  as  it  is ;  that  is  where 
the  baby  is  to  crawl  and  play  and  roll  about. 


LUCINDA  153 

Is  it  not  true  that  the  pain  my  sad  letter  caused  you  is 
now  entirely  compensated?  In  the  midst  of  all  these  giddy 
joys  and  hopes  I  can  no  longer  torment  myself  with  care. 
You  yourself  suffered  no  greater  pain  from  it  than  I.  But 
what  does  that  matter,  if  you  love  me,  really  love  me  in 
your  very  heart,  without  any  reservation  of  alien  thought? 
What  pain  were  worth  mentioning  when  we  gain  by  it  a 
deeper  and  more  fervid  consciousness  of  our  love!  And 
so,  I  am  sure,  you  feel  about  it  too.  Everything  I  am 
telling  you,  you  knew  long  ago.  There  is  absolutely  no 
delight,  no  love  in  me,  the  cause  of  which  does  not  lie  con- 
cealed somewhere  in  the  depths  of  your  being,  you  ever- 
lastingly blessed  creature ! 

Misunderstandings  are  sometimes  good,  in  that  they  lead 
us  to  talk  of  what  is  holiest.  The  differences  that  now  and 
then  seem  to  arise  are  not  in  us,  not  in  either  of  us ;  they 
are  merely  between  us  and  on  the  surface,  and  I  hope  you 
will  take  this  occasion  to  drive  them  off  and  away  from  you. 

And  what  is  the  cause  of  such  little  repulsions  except  our 
mutual  and  insatiable  desire  to  love  and  be  loved?  And 
without  this  insatiableness  there  is  no  love.  We  live  and 
love  to  annihilation.  And  if  it  is  love  that  first  develops 
us  into  true  and  perfect  beings,  that  is  the  very  life  of  life, 
then  it  need  not  fear  opposition  any  more  than  it  fears 
life  itself  or  humanity;  peace  will  come  to  it  only  after  the 
conflict  of  forces. 

I  feel  happy  indeed  that  I  love  a  woman  who  is  capable 
of  loving  as  you  do.  ''As  you  do  "  is  a  stronger  expression 
than  any  superlative.  How  can  you  praise  my  words, 
when  I,  without  wishing  to,  hit  upon  some  that  hurt  you? 
I  should  like  to  say,  I  write  too  well  to  be  able  to  describe 
to  you  my  inward  state  of  mind.  Oh,  dearest !  Believe  me, 
there  is  no  question  in  you  that  has  not  its  answer  in  me. 
Your  love  cannot  be  any  more  everlasting  than  mine. 
Admirable,  however,  is  your  beautiful  jealousy  of  my  fancy 
and  its  wild  flights.  That  indicates  rightly  the  boundless- 
ness of  your  constancy,  and  leads  me  to  hope  that  your 


154  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

jealousy  is  on  the  point  of  destroying  itself  by  its  own 
excess. 

This  sort  of  fancy  —  committed  to  writing  —  is  no  longer 
needed.  I  shall  soon  be  with  you.  I  am  holier  and  more 
composed  than  I  was.  I  can  only  see  you  in  my  mind  and 
stand  always  before  you.  You  yourself  feel  everything 
without  my  telling  you,  and  beam  with  joy,  thinking  partly 
of  the  man  you  love  and  partly  of  your  baby. 


Do  you  know,  while  I  have  been  writing  to  you,  no  mem- 
ory could  have  profaned  you;  to  me  you  are  as  everlast- 
ingly pure  as  the  Holy  Virgin  of  the  Immaculate  Con- 
ception, and  you  have  wanted  nothing  to  make  you  like  the 
Madonna  except  the  Child.  Now  you  have  that,  now  it  is 
there  and  a  reality.  I  shall  soon  be  carrying  him  on  my 
arm,  telling  him  fairy-tales,  giving  him  serious  instruction 
and  lessons  as  to  how  a  young  man  has  to  conduct  himself 
in  the  world. 

And  then  my  mind  reverts  to  the  mother.  I  give  you 
an  endless  kiss;  I  watch  your  bosom  heave  with  longing, 
and  feel  the  mysterious  throbbing  of  your  heart.  When 
we  are  together  again  we  will  think  of  our  youth,  and  I  will 
keep  the  present  holy.  You  are  right  indeed;  one  hour 
later  is  infinitely  later. 

It  is  cruel  that  I  cannot  be  with  you  right  now.  From 
sheer  impatience  I  do  all  sorts  of  foolish  things.  From 
morning  until  night  I  do  nothing  but  rove  around  here  in 
this  glorious  region.  Sometimes  I  hasten  my  steps,  as  if 
I  had  something  terribly  important  to  do,  and  presently 
find  myself  in  some  place  where  I  had  not  the  least  desire 
to  be.  I  make  gestures  as  if  I  were  delivering  a  forcible 
speech ;  I  think  I  am  alone  and  suddenly  find  myself  among 
people.  Then  I  have  to  smile  when  I  realize  how  absent- 
minded  I  was. 

I  cannot  write  very  long  either;  pretty  soon  I  want  to 
go  out  again  and  dream  away  the  beautiful  evening  on  the 
bank  of  the  quiet  stream. 


LUCINDA  155 

Today  I  forgot  among  other  things  that  it  was  time  to 
send  my  letter  off.  Oh  well,  so  much  the  more  joy  and 
excitement  will  you  have  when  you  receive  it. 


People  are  really  very  good  to  me.  They  not  only  for- 
give me  for  not  taking  any  part  in  their  conversation,  but 
also  for  capriciously  interrupting  it.  In  a  quiet  way 
they  seem  even  to  derive  hearty  pleasure  from  my  joy. 
Especially  Juliana.  I  tell  her  very  little  about  you,  but 
she  has  a  good  intuition  and  surmises  the  rest.  Certainly 
there  is  nothing  more  amiable  than  pure,  unselfish  delight 
in  love. 

I  really  believe  that  I  should  love  my  friends  here,  even 
if  they  were  less  admirable  than  they  are.  I  feel  a  great 
change  in  my  being,  a  general  tenderness  and  sweet 
warmth  in  all  the  powers  of  my  soul  and  spirit,  like  the 
beautiful  exhaustion  of  the  senses  that  follows  the  highest 
life.  And  yet  it  is  anything  but  weakness.  On  the  con- 
trary, I  know  that  from  now  on  1  shall  be  able  to  do  every- 
thing pertaining  to  my  vocation  with  more  liking  and  with 
fresher  vigor.  I  have  never  felt  more  confidence  and 
courage  to  work  as  a  man  among  men,  to  lead  a  heroic  life, 
and  in  joyous  fraternal  cooperation  to  act  for  eternity. 

That  is  my  virtue ;  thus  it  becomes  me  to  be  like  the  gods. 
Yours  is  gently  to  reveal,  like  Nature's  priestess  of  joy, 
the  mystery  of  love ;  and,  surrounded  by  worthy  sons  and 
daughters,  to  hallow  this  beautiful  life  into  a  holy  festival. 


I  often  worry  about  your  health.  You  dress  yourself 
too  lightly  and  are  fond  of  the  evening  air ;  those  are  dan- 
gerous habits  and  are  not  the  only  ones  which  you  must 
break.  Remember  that  a  new  order  of  things  is  begin- 
ning for  you.  Hitherto  I  have  praised  your  frivolity, 
because  it  was  opportune  and  in  keeping  with  the  rest  of 
your  nature.  I  thought  it  feminine  for  you  to  play  with 
Fortune,  to  flout  caution,  to  destroy  whole  masses  of  your 
life  and  environment.     Now,  however,  there  is  something 


156  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

that  you  must  always  bear  in  mind,  and  regard  above 
everything  else.  You  must  gradually  train  yourself  —  in 
the  allegorical  sense,  of  course. 


In  this  letter  everything  is  all  mixed  up  in  a  motley  con- 
fusion, just  as  praying  and  eating  and  rascality  and  ecstasy 
are  mixed  up  in  life.  Well,  good  night.  Oh,  why  is  it  that 
I  cannot  at  least  be  with  you  in  my  dreams  —  be  really 
with  you  and  dream  in  you.  For  when  I  merely  dream  of 
you,  I  am  always  alone.  You  wonder  why  you  do  not 
dream  of  me,  since  you  think  of  me  so  much.  Dearest,  do 
you  not  also  have  your  long  spells  of  silence  about  me? 


Amalia's  letter  gave  me  great  pleasure.  To  be  sure,  I 
see  from  its  flattering  tone  that  she  does  not  consider  me 
as  an  exception  to  the  men  who  need  flattery.  I  do  not 
like  that  at  all.  It  would  not  be  fair  to  ask  her  to  recognize 
my  worth  in  our  way.  It  is  enough  that  there  is  one  who 
understands  me.  In  her  way  she  appreciates  my  worth 
so  beautifully.  I  wonder  if  she  know^s  what  adoration  is? 
I  doubt  it,  and  am  sorry  for  her  if  she  does  not.  Aren't 
you?  

Today  in  a  French  book  about  two  lovers  I  came  across 
the  expression :  * '  They  were  the  universe  to  each  other. ' ' 
It  struck  me  as  at  once  pathetic  and  comical,  how  that 
thoughtless  phrase,  put  there  merely  as  a  hyperbolical 
figure  of  speech,  in  our  case  w^as  so  literally  true.  Still 
it  is  also  literally  true  for  a  French  passion  of  that  kind. 
They  are  the  universe  to  each  other,  because  they  lose  sense 
for  everything  else.  Not  so  with  us.  Everything  we  once 
loved  we  still  love  all  the  more  ardently.  The  world's 
meaning  has  now  dawned  upon  us.  Through  me  you  have 
learned  to  know  the  infinitude  of  the  human  mind,  and 
through  you  I  have  come  to  understand  marriage  and  life, 
and  the  gloriousness  of  all  things. 

Everything  is  animate  for  me,  speaks  to  me,  and  every- 


LUCINDA  157 

thing  is  holy.  When  people  love  each  other  as  we  do, 
human  nature  reverts  to  its  original  godliness.  The 
pleasure  of  the  lover's  embrace  becomes  again  —  what  it 
is  in  general  —  the  holiest  marvel  of  Nature.  And  that 
which  for  others  is  only  something  to  be  rightly  ashamed 
of,  becomes  for  us,  what  in  and  of  itself  it  is,  the  pure  fire 
of  the  noblest  potency  of  life. 


There  are  three  things  which  our  child  shall  certainly 
have  —  a  great  deal  of  wanton  spirit,  a  serious  face,  and  a 
certain  amount  of  predisposition  for  art.  Everything  else 
I  await  with  quiet  resignation.  Son  or  daughter,  as  for 
that  I  have  no  special  preference.  But  about  the  child's 
bringing-up  I  have  thought  a  great,  great  deal.  We  must 
carefully  avoid,  I  think,  what  is  called  ''  education;  "  try 
harder  to  avoid  it  than,  say,  three  sensible  fathers  try,  by 
anxious  thought,  to  lace  up  their  progeny  from  the  very 
cradle  in  the  bands  of  narrow  morality. 

I  have  made  some  plans  which  I  think  will  please  you. 
In  doing  so  I  have  carefully  considered  your  ideas.  But 
you  must  not  neglect  the  Art!  For  your  daughter,  if  it 
should  be  a  daughter,  would  you  prefer  portrait-  or  land- 
scape-painting?   

You  foolish  girl,  with  your  external  things !  You  want 
to  know  what  is  going  on  around  me,  and  where  and  when 
and  how  I  live  and  amuse  myself?  Just  look  around  you, 
on  the  chair  beside  you,  in  your  arms,  close  to  your  heart  — 
that  is  where  I  am.  Does  not  a  ray  of  longing  strike  you, 
creep  up  with  sweet  warmth  to  your  heart,  until  it  reaches 
your  mouth,  where  it  would  fain  overflow  in  kisses? 

And  now  you  actually  boast  because  you  write  me  such 
warm  letters,  while  I  only  write  to  you  often,  you  pedantic 
creature.  At  first  I  always  think  of  you  as  you  describe 
it  —  that  I  am  walking  with  you,  looking  at  you,  listening 
to  you,  talking  with  you.  Then  again  it  is  sometimes  quite 
different,  especially  when  I  wake  up  at  night. 


158  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

How  can  you  have  any  doubt  about  the  worthiness  and 
divineness  of  your  letters?  The  last  one  sparkles  and 
beams  as  if  it  had  bright  eyes.  It  is  not  mere  writing  — 
it  is  music.  I  believe  that  if  I  were  to  stay  away  from 
you  a  few  more  months,  your  style  would  become  absolutely 
perfect.  Meanwhile  I  think  it  advisable  for  us  to  forget 
about  writing  and  style,  and  no  longer  to  postpone  the 
highest  and  loveliest  of  studies.  I  have  practically  decided 
to  set  out  in  eight  days. 

n 

It  is  a  remarkable  thing  that  man  does  not  stand  in  great 
awe  of  himself.  The  children  are  justified,  when  they  peep 
so  curiously  and  timidly  at  a  company  of  unknoAvn  faces. 
Each  individual  atom  of  everlasting  time  is  capable  of  com- 
prising a  world  of  joy,  and  at  the  same  time  of  opening 
up  a  fathomless  abyss  of  pain  and  suffering.  I  understand 
now  the  old  fairy-tale  about  the  man  whom  the  sorcerer 
allowed  to  live  a  great  many  years  in  a  few  moments.  For 
I  know  by  my  own  experience  the  terrible  omnipotence  of 
the  fantasy. 

Since  the  last  letter  from  your  sister  —  it  is  three  days 
now  —  I  have  undergone  the  sufferings  of  an  entire  life, 
from  the  bright  sunlight  of  glowing  youth  to  the  pale 
moonlight  of  sagacious  old  age.  Every  little  detail  she 
wrote  about  your  sickness,  taken  with  what  I  had  already 
gleaned  from  the  doctor  and  had  observed  myself,  con- 
firmed my  suspicion  that  it  was  far  more  dangerous  than 
you  thought;  indeed  no  longer  dangerous,  but  decided, 
past  hope.  Lost  in  this  thought  and  my  strength  entirely 
exhausted  on  account  of  the  impossibility  of  hurrying  to 
your  side,  my  state  of  mind  was  really  very  disconsolate. 
Now  for  the  first  time  I  understand  what  it  really  was, 
being  new-born  by  the  joyful  news  that  you  are  well  again. 
For  you  are  well  again  now,  as  good  as  entirely  well  —  that 
I  infer  from  all  the  reports,  with  the  same  confidence  with 
which  a  few  days  ago  I  pronounced  our  death-sentence. 


LUCINDA  159 

I  did  not  think  of  it  as  about  to  happen  in  the  future, 
or  even  in  the  present.  Everything  was  already  past.  For 
a  long  time  you  had  been  wrapt  in  the  bosom  of  the  cold 
earth;  flowers  had  started  to  grow  on  the  beloved  grave, 
and  my  tears  had  already  begun  to  flow  more  gently.  Mute 
and  alone  I  stood,  and  saw  nothing  but  the  features  I  had 
loved  and  the  sweet  glances  of  the  expressive  eyes.  The 
picture  remained  motionless  before  me;  now  and  then  the 
pale  face  smiled  and  seemed  asleep,  just  as  it  had  looked 
the  last  time  I  saw  it.  Then  of  a  sudden  the  different 
memories  all  became  confused;  with  unbelievable  rapidity 
the  outlines  changed,  reassumed  their  first  form,  and  trans- 
formed themselves  again  and  again,  until  the  wild  vision 
vanished.  Only  your  holy  eyes  remained  in  the  empty 
space  and  hung  there  motionless,  even  as  the  friendly  stars 
shine  eternally  over  our  poverty.  I  gazed  fixedly  at  the 
black  lights,  which  shone  with  a  well-known  smile  in  the 
night  of  my  grief.  Now  a  piercing  pain  from  dark  suns 
burned  me  with  an  insupportable  glare,  now  a  beautiful 
radiance  hovered  about  as  if  to  entice  me.  Then  I  seemed 
to  feel  a  fresh  breath  of  morning  air  fan  me;  I  held  my 
head  up  and  cried  aloud :  ' '  Why  should  you  torment  your- 
self?    In  a  few  minutes  you  can  be  with  her!  " 

I  was  already  hastening  to  you,  when  suddenly  a  new 
thought  held  me  back  and  I  said  to  my  spirit :  ' '  Unworthy 
man,  you  cannot  even  endure  the  trifling  dissonances  of 
this  ordinary  life,  and  yet  you  regard  yourself  as  ready  for 
and  worthy  of  a  higher  life  I  Go  away  and  do  and  suffer 
as  your  calling  is,  and  then  present  yourself  again  when 
your  orders  have  been  executed." 

Is  it  not  to  you  also  remarkable  how  everything  on  this 
earth  moves  toward  the  centre,  how  orderly  everything  is, 
how  insignificant  and  trivial?  So  it  has  always  seemed  to 
me.  And  for  that  reason  I  suspect  —  if  I  am  not  mistaken, 
I  have  already  imparted  my  suspicion  to  you  —  that  the  next 
life  will  be  larger,  and  in  the  good  as  well  as  in  the  bad, 
stronger,  wilder,  bolder  and  more  tremendous. 


160  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

The  duty  of  living  had  conquered,  and  I  found  myself 
again  amid  the  tumult  of  human  life,  and  of  my  and  its 
weak  efforts  and  faulty  deeds.  A  feeling  of  horror  came 
over  me,  as  when  a  person  suddenly  finds  himself  alone  in 
the  midst  of  immeasurable  mountains  of  ice.  Everything 
about  me  and  in  me  was  cold  and  strange,  and  even  my 
tears  froze. 

Wonderful  worlds  appeared  and  vanished  before  me  in 
my  uneasy  dream.  I  was  sick  and  suffered  great  pain,  but 
I  loved  my  sickness  and  welcomed  the  suffering.  I  hated 
everything  earthly  and  was  glad  to  see  it  all  punished  and 
destroyed.  I  felt  so  alone  and  so  strangely.  And  as  a 
delicate  spirit  often  grows  melancholy  in  the  very  lap  of 
happiness  over  its  own  joy,  and  at  the  very  acme  of  its 
existence  becomes  conscious  of  the  futility  of  it  all,  so  did 
I  regard  my  suffering  with  mysterious  pleasure.  I  re- 
garded it  as  the  symbol  of  life  in  general;  I  believed  that 
I  was  seeing  and  feeling  the  everlasting  discord  by  means 
of  which  all  things  come  into  being  and  exist,  and  the  lovely 
forms  of  refined  culture  seemed  dead  and  trivial  to  me  in 
comparison  with  this  monstrous  world  of  infinite  strength 
and  of  unending  struggle  and  warfare,  even  into  the  most 
hidden  depths  of  existence. 

On  account  of  this  remarkable  feeling  sickness  acquired 
the  character  of  a  peculiar  world  complete  in  itself.  I  felt 
that  its  mysterious  life  was  richer  and  deeper  than  the 
vulgar  health  of  the  dreaming  sleep-walkers  all  around  me. 
And  with  the  sickliness,  which  was  not  at  all  unpleasant, 
this  feeling  also  clung  to  me  and  completely  separated  me 
from  other  men,  just  as  I  was  sundered  from  the  earth  by 
the  thought  that  your  nature  and  my  love  had  been  too 
sacred  not  to  take  speedy  flight  from  earth  and  its  coarse 
ties.  It  seemed  to  me  that  all  was  right  so,  and  that  your 
unavoidable  death  was  nothing  more  than  a  gentle  awaken- 
ing after  a  light  sleep. 

I  too  thought  that  I  was  awake  when  I  saw  your  picture, 
which  evermore  transfigured  itself  into  a  cheerful  diffused 


LUCINDA  161 

purity.  Serious  and  yet  charming,  quite  you  and  yet  no 
longer  you,  the  divine  form  irradiated  by  a  wonderful  light ! 
Now  it  was  like  the  terrible  gleam  of  visible  omnipotence, 
now  like  a  soft  ray  of  golden  childhood.  With  long,  still 
drafts  my  spirit  drank  from  the  cool  spring  of  pure  passion 
and  became  secretly  intoxicated  with  it.  And  in  this  bliss- 
ful drunkenness  I  felt  a  spiritual  worthiness  of  a  peculiar 
kind,  because  every  earthly  sentiment  was  entirely  strange 
to  me,  and  the  feeling  never  left  me  that  I  was  consecrated 
to  death. 

The  years  passed  slowly  by,  and  deeds  and  works  ad- 
vanced laboriously  to  their  goal,  one  after  the  other — a 
goal  that  seemed  as  little  mine  as  the  deeds  and  works 
seemed  to  be  what  they  are  called.  To  me  they  were  merely 
holy  symbols,  and  everything  brought  me  back  to  my  one 
Beloved,  who  was  the  mediatrix  between  my  dismembered 
ego  and  the  one  eternal  and  indivisible  humanity;  all  exist- 
ence was  an  uninterrupted  divine  service  of  solitary  love. 

Finally  I  became  conscious  that  it  was  now  nearly  over. 
The  brow  was  no  longer  smooth  and  the  locks  were  becom- 
ing gray.  My  career  was  ended,  but  not  completed.  The 
best  strength  of  life  was  gone,  and  still  Art  and  Virtue 
stood  ever  unattainable  before  me.  I  should  have  de- 
spaired, had  I  not  perceived  and  idolized  both  in  you, 
gracious  Madonna,  and  you  and  your  gentle  godliness  in 
myself. 

Then  you  appeared  to  me,  beckoning  with  the  summons 
of  Death.  An  earnest  longing  for  you  and  for  freedom 
seized  me;  I  yearned  for  my  dear  old  fatherland,  and  was 
about  to  shake  off  the  dust  of  travel,  when  I  was  suddenly 
called  back  to  life  by  the  promise  and  reassurance  of  your 
recovery. 

Then  I  became  conscious  that  I  had  been  dreaming;  I 
shuddered  at  all  the  significant  suggestions  and  similari- 
ties, and  stood  anxiously  by  the  boundless  deep  of  this 
inward  truth. 

Do  you  know  what  has  become  most  obvious  to  me  as  a 
Vol.  IV— 11 


162  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

result  of  it  allf  First,  that  I  idolize  you,  and  that  it  is  a 
good  thing  that  I  do  so.  We  two  are  one,  and  only  in  that 
way  does  a  human  being  become  one  and  a  complete  entity, 
that  is,  by  regarding  and  poetically  conceiving  himself  as 
the  centre  of  everything  and  the  spirit  of  the  world.  But 
why  poetically  conceive,  since  we  find  the  germ  of  every- 
thing in  ourselves,  and  yet  remain  forever  only  a  fragment 
of  ourselves? 

And  then  I  now  know  that  death  can  also  be  felt  as  beau- 
tiful and  sweet.  I  understand  how  the  free  creature  can 
quietly  long  in  the  bloom  of  all  its  strength  for  dissolution 
and  freedom,  and  can  joyfully  entertain  the  thought  of 
return  as  a  morning  sun  of  hope. 

A  Reflection 

It  has  often  struck  my  mind  how  extraordinary  it  is  that 
sensible  and  dignified  people  can  keep  on,  with  such  great 
seriousness  and  such  never-tiring  industry,  forever  playing 
the  little  game  in  perpetual  rotation  —  a  game  which  is  of 
no  use  whatever  and  has  no  definite  object,  although  it  is 
perhaps  the  earliest  of  all  games.  Then  my  spirit  inquired 
what  Nature,  who  everywhere  thinks  so  profoundly  and 
employs  her  cunning  in  such  a  large  way,  and  who,  instead 
of  talking  wittily,  behaves  wittily,  may  think  of  those  naive 
intimations  which  refined  speakers  designate  only  by  their 
namelessness. 

And  this  namelessness  itself  has  an  equivocal  signifi- 
cance. The  more  modest  and  modern  one  is,  the  more 
fashionable  does  it  become  to  put  an  immodest  interpreta- 
tion upon  it.  For  the  old  gods,  on  the  contrary,  all  life 
had  a  certain  classic  dignity  whereby  even  the  immodest 
heroic  art  is  rendered  lifelike.  The  mass  of  such  works 
and  the  great  inventive  power  displayed  in  them  settles 
the  question  of  rank  and  nobility  in  the  realm  of  mythology. 

This  number  and  this  power  are  all  right,  but  they  are 
not  the  highest.  "Where  does  the  longed-for  ideal  lie  con- 
cealed?    Or  does  the  aspiring  heart  evermore  find  in  the 


LUCINDA  163 

highest  of  all  plastic  arts  only  new  manners  and  never  a 
perfected  style? 

Thinking  has  a  peculiarity  of  its  own  in  that,  next  to 
itself,  it  loves  to  think  about  something  which  it  can  think 
about  forever.  For  that  reason  the  life  of  the  cultured  and 
thinking  man  is  a  constant  study  and  meditation  on  the 
beautiful  riddle  of  his  destiny.  He  is  always  defining  it 
in  a  new  way,  for  just  that  is  his  entire  destiny,  to  be 
defined  and  to  define.  Only  in  the  search  itself  does  the 
human  mind  discover  the  secret  that  it  seeks. 

But  what,  then,  is  it  that  defines  or  is  defined?  Among 
men  it  is  the  nameless.  And  what  is  the  nameless  among 
women?  —  The  Indefinite. 

The  Indefinite  is  more  mysterious,  but  the  Definite  has 
greater  magic  power.  The  charming  confusion  of  the 
Indefinite  is  more  romantic,  but  the  noble  refinement  of  the 
Definite  has  more  of  genius.  The  beauty  of  the  Indefinite 
is  perishable,  like  the  life  of  the  flowers  and  the  everlasting 
youth  of  mortal  feelings;  the  energy  of  the  Definite  is 
transitory,  like  a  genuine  storm  and  genuine  inspiration. 

Who  can  measure  and  compare  two  things  which  have 
endless  worth,  when  both  are  held  together  in  the  real 
Definiteness,  which  is  intended  to  fill  all  gaps  and  to  act 
as  mediator  between  the  male  and  female  individual  and 
infinite  humanity? 

The  Definite  and  the  Indefinite  and  the  entire  abundance 
of  their  definite  and  indefinite  relations  —  that  is  the  one 
and  all,  the  most  wonderful  and  yet  the  simplest,  the  sim- 
plest and  yet  the  highest.  The  universe  itself  is  only  a 
toy  of  the  Definite  and  the  Indefinite;  and  the  real  defini- 
tion of  the  definable  is  an  allegorical  miniature  of  the  life 
and  activity  of  ever-flowing  creation. 

With  everlasting  immutable  symmetry  both  strive  in 
different  ways  to  get  near  to  the  Infinite  and  to  escape  from 
it.  With  light  but  sure  advances  the  Indefinite  expands  its 
native  wish  from  the  beautiful  centre  of  Finiteness  into  the 
boundless.      Complete   Definiteness,   on   the  other  hand. 


164  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

throws  itself  with  a  bold  leap  out  of  the  blissful  dream  of 
the  infinite  will  into  the  limits  of  the  finite  deed,  and 
by  self-refinement  ever  increases  in  magnanimous  self- 
restraint  and  beautiful  self-sufliciency. 

In  this  symmetry  is  also  revealed  the  incredible  humor 
with  which  consistent  Nature  accomplishes  her  most  uni- 
versal and  her  most  simple  antithesis.  Even  in  the  most 
delicate  and  most  artistic  organization  these  comical  points 
of  the  great  All  reveal  themselves,  like  a  miniature,  with 
roguish  significance,  and  give  to  all  individuality,  which 
exists  only  by  them  and  by  the  seriousness  of  their  play, 
its  final  rounding  and  perfection. 

Through  this  individuality  and  that  allegory  the  bright 
ideal  of  witty  sensuality  blooms  forth  from  the  striving 
after  the  Unconditioned. 

Now  everything  is  clear !  Hence  the  omnipresence  of  the 
nameless,  unknown  divinity.  Nature  herself  wills  the  ever- 
lasting succession  of  constantly  repeated  efforts;  and  she 
wills,  too,  that  every  individual  shall  be  complete,  unique 
and  new  in  himself  —  a  true  image  of  the  supreme,  indi- 
visible Individuality.  Sinking  deeper  into  this  Individu- 
ality, my  Reflection  took  such  an  individual  turn  that  it 
presently  began  to  cease  and  to  forget  itself. 

**  What  point  have  all  these  allusions,  which  with  sense- 
less sense  on  the  outward  boundaries  of  sensuality,  or 
rather  in  the  middle  of  it,  I  will  not  say  play,  but  contend 
with,  each  other?  " 

So  you  will  surely  ask,  and  so  the  good  Juliana  would 
ask,  though  no  doubt  in  different  language. 

Dear  Beloved !  Shall  the  nosegay  contain  only  demure 
roses,  quiet  forget-me-nots,  modest  violets  and  other  maid- 
enlike and  childlike  flowers?  May  it  not  contain  anything 
and  everything  that  shines  strangely  in  wonderful  glory? 

Masculine  awkwardness  is  a  manifold  thing,  and  rich  in 
blossoms  and  fruits  of  all  kinds.  Let  the  wonderful  plant, 
which  I  will  not  name,  have  its  place.     It  will  serve  at 


LUCINDA  165 

least  as  a  foil  to  the  bright-gleaming  pomegranate  and  the 
yellow  oranges.  Or  should  there  be,  perhaps,  instead  of 
this  motley  abundance,  only  one  perfect  flower,  which  com- 
bines all  the  beauties  of  the  rest  and  renders  their  exist- 
ence superfluous? 

I  do  not  apologize  for  doing  what  I  should  rather  like  to 
do  again,  with  full  confidence  in  your  objective  sense  for 
the  artistic  productions  of  the  awkwardness  which,  often 
and  not  unwillingly,  borrows  the  material  for  its  creations 
from  masculine  inspiration. 

It  is  a  soft  Furioso  and  a  clever  Adagio  of  friendship. 
You  will  be  able  to  learn  various  things  from  it ;  that  men 
can  hate  with  as  uncommon  delicacy  as  you  can  love ;  that 
they  then  remold  a  wrangle,  after  it  is  over,  into  a  dis- 
tinction; and  that  you  may  make  as  many  observations 
about  it  as  pleases  you. 

Julius  to  Antonio 

You  have  changed  a  great  deal  of  late.  Beware,  my 
friend,  that  you  do  not  lose  your  sense  for  the  great  before 
you  realize  it.  What  will  that  mean?  You  will  finally 
acquire  so  much  modesty  and  delicacy  that  heart  and  feel- 
ing will  be  lost.  Where  then  will  be  your  manhood  and 
your  power  of  action?  I  shall  yet  come  to  the  point  of 
treating  you  as  you  treat  me,  since  we  have  not  been  living 
with  each  other,  but  near  each  other.  I  shall  have  to  set 
limits  for  you  and  say :  Even  if  he  has  a  sense  for  every- 
thing else  that  is  beautiful,  still  he  lacks  all  sense  for 
friendship.  Still  I  shall  never  set  myself  up  as  a  moral 
critic  of  my  friend  and  his  conduct;  he  who  can  do  that 
does  not  deserve  the  rare  good  fortune  to  have  a  friend. 

That  you  wrong  yourself  first  of  all  only  makes  the  mat- 
ter worse.  Tell  me  seriously,  do  you  think  there  is  virtue 
in  these  cool  subtleties  of  feeling,  in  these  cunning  mental 
gymnastics,  which  consume  the  marrow  of  a  man 's  life  and 
leave  him  hollow  inside? 

For  a  long  time  I  was  resigned  and  said  nothing.     I  did 


166  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

not  doubt  at  all  that  you,  who  know  so  much,  would  also 
probably  know  the  causes  that  have  destroyed  our  friend- 
ship. It  almost  seems  as  if  I  was  mistaken,  since  you  were 
so  astonished  at  my  attaching  myself  to  Edward  and  asked 
how  you  had  offended  me,  as  if  you  did  not  understand  it. 
If  it  were  only  that,  only  some  one  thing  like  that,  then  it 
would  not  be  worth  while  to  ask  such  a  painful  question; 
the  question  would  answer  and  settle  itself.  But  is  it  not 
more  than  that,  when  on  every  occasion  I  must  feel  it  a 
fresh  desecration  to  tell  you  everything  about  Edward,  just 
as  it  happened?  To  be  sure  you  have  done  nothing,  have 
not  even  said  anything  aloud;  but  I  know  and  see  very  well 
how  you  think  about  it.  And  if  I  did  not  know  it  and  see 
it,  where  would  be  the  invisible  communion  of  our  spirits 
and  the  beautiful  magic  of  this  communion?  It  certainly 
cannot  occur  to  you  to  want  to  hold  back  still  longer,  and 
by  sheer  finesse  to  try  to  end  the  misunderstanding;  for 
otherwise  I  should  myself  really  have  nothing  more  to  say. 

You  two  are  unquestionably  separated  by  an  everlasting 
chasm.  The  quiet,  clear  depth  of  your  being  and  the  hot 
struggle  of  his  restless  life  lie  at  the  opposite  ends  of 
human  existence.  He  is  all  action,  you  are  a  sensitive,  con- 
templative nature.  For  that  reason  you  should  have  sense 
for  everything,  and  you  really  do  have  it,  save  when  you 
cultivate  an  intentional  reserve.  And  that  really  vexes  me. 
Better  that  you  should  hate  the  noble  fellow  than  misjudge 
him.  But  where  will  it  lead,  if  you  unnaturally  accustom 
yourself  to  use  your  utmost  wit  in  finding  nothing  but  the 
commonplace  in  what  little  of  greatness  and  beauty  there 
is  in  him,  and  that  without  renouncing  your  claim  to  a 
liberal  mind  ? 

Is  that  your  boasted  many-sidedness?  To  be  sure  you 
observe  the  principle  of  equality,  and  one  man  does  not 
fare  much  better  than  another,  except  that  each  one  is  mis- 
understood in  a  peculiar  way.  Have  you  not  also  forced 
me  to  say  nothing  to  you,  or  to  anyone  else,  about  that 
which  I  feel  to  be  the  highest?     And  that  merely  because 


LUCINDA  167 

you  could  not  hold  back  your  opinion  until  it  was  the  proper 
time,  and  because  your  mind  is  always  imagining  limita- 
tions in  others  before  it  can  find  its  own.  You  have  almost 
obliged  me  to  explain  to  you  how  great  my  own  worth 
really  is ;  how  much  more  just  and  safe  it  would  have  been, 
if  now  and  then  you  had  not  passed  judgment  but  had 
believed ;  if  you  had  presupposed  in  me  an  unknown  infinite. 

To  be  sure  my  own  negligence  is  to  blame  for  it  all. 
Perhaps  too  it  was  idiosyncrasy  —  that  I  wanted  to  share 
with  you  the  entire  present,  without  letting  you  know  any- 
thing about  the  past  and  the  future.  Somehow  it  went 
against  my  feelings,  and  I  regarded  it  too  as  superfluous ; 
for,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  I  gave  you  credit  for  a  great  deal 
of  intelligence. 

0  Antonio,  if  I  could  be  doubtful  about  the  eternal  truths, 
you  might  have  brought  me  to  the  point  of  regarding  that 
quiet,  beautiful  friendship,  which  is  based  merely  upon  the 
harmony  of  being  and  living  together,  as  something  false 
and  perverse. 

Is  it  now  still  incomprehensible  if  I  quite  go  over  to  the 
other  side?  I  renounce  refined  enjoyment  and  plunge  into 
the  wild  battle  of  life.  I  hasten  to  Edward.  Everything 
is  agreed  upon.  We  will  not  only  live  together,  but  we  will 
work  and  act  in  fraternal  unison.  He  is  rough  and  uncouth, 
his  virtue  is  strong  rather  than  sensitive.  But  he  has  a 
great  manly  heart,  and  in  better  times  than  ours  he  would 
have  been,  I  say  it  boldly,  a  hero. 

II 

It  is  no  doubt  well  that  we  have  at  last  talked  with  each 
other  again.  I  am  quite  content,  too,  that  you  did  not  wish 
to  write,  and  that  you  spoke  slightingly  of  poor  innocent  let- 
ters because  you  really  have  more  genius  for  talking.  But 
I  have  in  my  heart  one  or  two  things  more  that  I  could  not 
say  to  you,  and  will  now  endeavor  to  intimate  with  the  pen. 

But  why  in  this  way?  Oh,  my  friend,  if  I  only  knew  of 
a  more  refined  and  subtle  mode  of  communicating  my 


168  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

thoughts  from  afar  in  some  exquisite  form!  To  me  con- 
versation is  too  loud,  too  near,  and  also  too  disconnected. 
These  separate  words  always  present  one  side  only,  a  part 
of  the  connected,  coherent  whole,  which  I  should  like  to 
intimate  in  its  complete  harmony. 

And  can  men  who  are  going  to  live  together  be  too  tender 
toward  each  other  in  their  intercourse?  It  is  not  as  if  I 
were  afraid  of  saying  something  too  strong,  and  for  that 
reason  avoided  speaking  of  certain  persons  and  certain 
affairs.  So  far  as  that  is  concerned,  I  think  that  the 
boundary  line  between  us  is  forever  destroyed. 

What  I  still  had  to  say  to  you  is  something  very  general, 
and  yet  I  prefer  to  choose  this  roundabout  way.  I  do  not 
know  whether  it  is  false  or  true  delicacy,  but  I  should  find 
it  very  hard  to  talk  with  you,  face  to  face,  about  friendship. 
And  yet  it  is  thoughts  on  that  subject  that  I  wish  to  convey 
to  you.  The  application  —  and  it  is  about  that  I  am  most 
concerned  —  you  will  yourself  easily  be  able  to  make. 

To  my  mind  there  are  two  kinds  of  friendship.  The  first 
is  entirely  external.  Insatiably  it  rushes  from  deed  to 
deed,  receives  every  worthy  man  into  the  great  alliance  of 
united  heroes,  ties  the  old  knot  tighter  by  means  of  every 
virtue,  and  ever  aspires  to  win  new  brothers;  the  more  it 
has,  the  more  it  wants.  Call  to  mind  the  antique  world 
and  you  will  find  this  friendship,  which  wages  honest  war 
against  all  that  is  bad,  even  were  it  in  ourselves  or  in  the 
beloved  friend  —  you  will  find  this  friendship  everywhere, 
where  noble  strength  exerts  influence  on  great  masses,  and 
creates  or  governs  worlds.  Now  times  are  different;  but 
the  ideal  of  this  friendship  will  stay  with  me  as  long  as 
I  live. 

The  other  friendship  is  entirely  internal.  A  wonderful 
symmetry  of  the  most  intimately  personal,  as  if  it  had  been 
previously  ordained  that  one  should  always  be  perfecting 
himself.  All  thoughts  and  feelings  become  social  through 
the  mutual  excitation  and  development  of  the  holiest.  And 
this  purely  spiritual  love,  this  beautiful  mysticism  of  inter- 


LUCINDA  169 

course,  does  not  merely  hover  as  the  distant  goal  of  a  per- 
haps futile  effort.  No,  it  is  only  to  be  found  complete. 
There  no  deception  occurs,  as  in  that  other  heroic  form. 
Whether  a  man's  virtue  will  stand  the  test,  his  actions  must 
show.  But  he  who  inwardly  sees  and  feels  humanity  and 
the  world  will  not  be  apt  to  look  for  public  disinterested- 
ness where  it  is  not  to  be  found. 

He  only  is  capable  of  this  friendship  who  is  quite  com- 
posed within  himself,  and  who  knows  how  to  honor  with 
humility  the  divinity  of  the  other. 

When  the  gods  have  bestowed  such  friendship  upon  a 
man,  he  can  do  nothing  more  than  protect  it  carefully 
against  everything  external,  and  guard  its  holy  being.  For 
the  delicate  flower  is  perishable. 

Longing  and  Peace 

Lightly  dressed,  Lucinda  and  Julius  stood  by  the  win- 
dow in  the  summer-house,  refreshing  themselves  in  the 
cool  morning  air.  They  were  absorbed  in  watching  the 
rising  sun,  which  the  birds  were  welcoming  with  their  joy- 
ous songs. 

*  *  Julius, ' '  asked  Lucinda,  *  *  why  is  it  that  I  feel  a  deep 
longing  in  this  serene  peace?  " 

"It  is  only  in  longing  that  we  find  peace,"  answered 
Julius.  **  Yes,  there  is  peace  only  when  the  spirit  is 
entirely  free  to  long  and  to  seek,  where  it  can  find  nothing 
higher  than  its  own  longing.*' 

*  *  Only  in  the  peace  of  the  night, ' '  said  Lucinda,  *  *  do 
longing  and  love  shine  full  and  bright,  like  this  glorious 
sun." 

**And  in  the  daytime,"  responded  Julius,  *'  the  happi- 
ness of  love  shines  dimly,  even  as  the  pale  moonlight." 

**  Or  it  appears  and  vanishes  suddenly  into  the  general 
darkness,"  added  Lucinda,  "  like  those  flashes  of  lightning 
which  lighted  up  the  room  when  the  moon  was  hidden." 

**  Only  in  the  night,"  said  Julius,  "  does  the  little  night- 


170  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

ingale  utter  wails  and  deep  sighs.  Only  in  the  night  does 
the  flower  shyly  open  and  breathe  freely  the  fragrant  air, 
intoxicating  both  mind  and  senses  in  equal  delight.  Only 
in  the  night,  Lucinda,  does  the  bold  speech  of  deep  passion 
flow  divinely  from  the  lips,  which  in  the  noise  of  the  day 
close  with  tender  pride  their  sweet  sanctuary.'* 

LUCINDA 

It  is  not  I,  my  Julius,  whom  you  portray  as  so  holy; 
although  I  would  fain  wail  like  the  nightingale,  and 
although  I  am,  as  I  inwardly  feel,  consecrated  to  the  night. 
It  is  you,  it  is  the  wonderful  flower  of  your  fantasy  which 
you  perceive  in  me,  when  the  noise  has  died  down  and 
nothing  commonplace  distracts  your  noble  mind. 

JULIUS 

Away  with  modesty  and  flattery!  Remember,  you  are 
the  priestess  of  the  night.  Even  in  the  daylight  the  dark 
lustre  of  your  abundant  hair,  the  bright  black  of  your 
earnest  eyes,  the  majesty  of  your  brow  and  your  entire 
body,  all  proclaim  it. 

LUCINDA 

My  eyes  droop  while  you  praise,  because  the  noisy  morn- 
ing dazzles  and  the  joyous  songs  of  the  merry  birds 
strengthen  and  awe  my  soul.  At  another  time  my  ear 
would  eagerly  drink  in  my  lovely  friend's  sweet  talk  here 
in  the  quiet,  dark  coolness  of  the  evening. 

JULIUS 

It  is  not  vain  fantasy.  My  longing  for  you  is  constant 
and  everlastingly  unsatisfied. 

LUCINDA 

Be  it  what  it  may,  you  are  the  object  in  which  my  being 
finds  peace. 

JULIUS 

Holy  peace,  dear  friend,  I  have  found  only  in  that 
longing. 


LUCINDA  171 

LUCINDA 

And  I  have  found  that  holy  longing  in  this  beautiful 
peace. 

JULIUS 

Alas,  that  the  garish  light  is  permitted  to  lift  the  veil 
that  so  concealed  those  flames,  that  the  play  of  the  senses 
was  fain  to  cool  and  assuage  the  burning  soul. 

LUCINDA 

And  so  sometimes  the  cold  and  serious  day  will  annihilate 
the  warm  night  of  life,  when  youth  flies  by  and  I  renounce 
you,  even  as  you  once  more  greatly  renounced  great  love. 

JULIUS 

Oh,  that  I  might  show  you  my  unknown  friend,  and  her 
the  wonder  of  my  wondrous  happiness. 

LUCINDA 

You  love  her  still  and  will  love  her  forever,  though  for- 
ever mine.    That  is  the  wonder  of  your  wondrous  heart. 

JULIUS 

No  more  wondrous  than  yours.  I  see  you,  clasped 
against  my  breast,  playing  with  your  Guide's  locks,  while 
we  twain  in  brotherly  union  adorn  your  serious  brow  with 
eternal  wreaths  of  joy. 

LUCINDA 

Let  rest  in  darkness,  bring  not  forth  into  light,  that 
which  blooms  sacredly  in  the  quiet  depths  of  the  heart. 

JULIUS 

Where  may  the  billow  of  life  be  sporting  with  the 
impulsive  youth  whom  tender  feeling  and  wild  fate  vehe- 
mently dragged  into  the  harsh  world? 

LUCINDA 

Uniquely  transfigured,  the  pure  image  of  the  noble  Un- 
known shines  in  the  blue  sky  of  your  pure  soul. 


172  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

JULIUS 

Oh  eternal  longing!  But  surely  the  futile  desire,  the 
vain  glare,  of  the  day  will  grow  dim  and  go  out,  and  there 
will  be  forever  more  the  restful  feeling  of  a  great  night  of 
love. 

LUCINDA 

Thus  does  the  woman's  heart  in  my  ardent  breast  feel, 
when  I  am  allowed  to  be  as  I  am.  It  longs  only  for  your 
longing,  and  is  peaceful  where  you  find  peace. 

Dallyings  of  the  Fantasy 

Life  itself,  the  delicate  child  of  the  gods,  is  crowded  out 
by  the  hard,  loud  preparations  for  living,  and  is  pitifully 
stifled  in  the  loving  embrace  of  apelike  Care. 

To  have  purposes,  to  carry  out  purposes,  to  interweave 
purposes  artfully  with  purposes  for  a  purpose:  this  habit 
is  so  deeply  rooted  in  the  foolish  nature  of  godlike  man, 
that  if  once  he  wishes  to  move  freely,  without  any  purpose, 
on  the  inner  stream  of  ever-flowing  images  and  feelings,  he 
must  actually  resolve  to  do  it  and  make  it  a  set  purpose. 

It  is  the  acme  of  intelligence  to  keep  silent  from  choice, 
to  surrender  the  soul  to  the  fantasy,  and  not  to  disturb  the 
sweet  dallyings  of  the  young  mother  with  her  child.  But 
rarely  is  the  mind  so  intelligent  after  the  golden  age  of  its 
innocence.  It  would  fain  possess  the  soul  alone ;  and  even 
when  she  supposes  herself  alone  with  her  natural  love,  the 
understanding  listens  furtively  and  substitutes  for  the  holy 
child's-play  mere  memories  of  former  purposes  or  prospects 
of  new  ones.  Yes,  it  even  continues  to  give  to  the  hollow, 
cold  illusions  a  tinge  of  color  and  a  fleeting  heat ;  and  thus 
by  its  imitative  skill  it  tries  to  steal  from  the  innocent  fan- 
tasy its  very  innermost  being. 

But  the  youthful  soul  does  not  allow  itself  to  be  cheated 
by  the  cunning  of  the  prematurely  old  Understanding,  and 
is  always  watching  while  its  darling  plays  with  the  beauti- 
ful pictures  of  the  beautiful  world.    Willingly  she  allows 


LUCINDA  173 

her  brow  to  be  adorned  with  the  wreaths  which  the  child 
plaits  from  the  blossoms  of  life,  and  willingly  she  sinks  into 
waking  slumber,  dreaming  of  the  music  of  love,  hearing  the 
friendly  and  mysterious  voices  of  the  gods,  like  the  sepa- 
rate sounds  of  a  distant  romance. 

Old,  well-known  feelings  make  music  from  the  depths  of 
the  past  and  the  future.  They  touch  the  listening  spirit 
but  lightly,  and  quickly  lose  themselves  in  the  background 
of  hushed  music  and  dim  love.  Every  one  lives  and  loves, 
complains  and  rejoices,  in  beautiful  confusion.  Here  at  a 
noisy  feast  the  lips  of  all  the  joyful  guests  open  in  general 
song,  and  there  the  lonely  maiden  becomes  mute  in  the 
presence  of  the  friend  in  whom  she  would  fain  confide,  and 
with  smiling  mouth  refuses  the  kiss.  Thoughtfully  I  strew 
flowers  on  the  grave  of  the  prematurely  dead  son,  flowers 
which  presently,  full  of  joy  and  hope,  I  offer  to  the  bride 
of  the  beloved  brother ;  while  the  high  priestess  beckons  to 
me  and  holds  out  her  hand  for  a  solemn  covenant  to  swear 
by  the  pure  eternal  fire  eternal  purity  and  never-dying 
enthusiasm,  I  hasten  away  from  the  altar  and  the  priest- 
ess to  seize  my  sword  and  plunge  with  the  host  of  heroes 
into  a  battle,  which  I  soon  forget,  seeing  in  the  deepest 
solitude  only  the  sky  and  myself. 

The  soul  that  has  such  dreams  in  sleep  continues  to  have 
them  even  when  it  is  awake.  It  feels  itself  entwined  by  the 
blossoms  of  love,  it  takes  care  not  to  destroy  the  loose 
wreaths;  it  gladly  gives  itself  up  a  prisoner,  consecrates 
itself  to  the  fantasy,  and  willingly  allows  itself  to  be  ruled 
by  the  child,  which  rewards  all  maternal  cares  by  its  sweet 
playfulness. 

Then  a  fresh  breath  of  the  bloom  of  youth  and  a  halo  of 
child-like  ecstasy  comes  over  the  whole  of  life.  The  man 
deifies  his  Beloved,  the  mother  her  child,  and  all  men  ever- 
lasting humanity. 

Now  the  soul  understands  the  wail  of  the  nightingale  and 
the  smile  of  the  new-born  babe;  the  significance  of  the 
flowers  and  the  mysterious  hieroglyphics  of  the  starry  sky ; 


174  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

the  holy  import  of  life  as  well  as  the  beautiful  language  of 
Nature.  All  things  speak  to  it,  and  everywhere  it  sees  the 
lovely  spirit  through  the  delicate  envelope. 

On  this  gaily  decorated  floor  it  glides  through  the  light 
dance  of  life,  innocent,  and  concerned  only  to  follow  the 
rhythm  of  sociability  and  friendship,  and  not  to  disturb  the 
harmony  of  love.  And  during  it  all  an  eternal  song,  of 
which  it  catches  now  and  then  a  few  words  which  adumbrate 
still  higher  wonders. 

Ever  more  beautifully  this  magic  circle  encompasses  the 
charmed  soul,  and  that  which  it  forms  or  speaks  sounds  like 
a  wonderful  romance  of  childhood's  beautiful  and  myste- 
rious divinities  —  a  romantic  tale,  accompanied  by  the 
bewitching  music  of  the  feelings,  and  adorned  with  the 
fairest  flowers  of  lovely  life. 


APHORISMS 

By  Friedbich  Schlegel 
From  the  Lyceum  and  the  Athenceum  (1797-1800) 

TRANSLATED   BY   LOUIS   H.   GRAY 

[ERFECT  understanding  of  a  classic  work 
should  never  be  possible;  but  those  who  are 
cultivated  and  who  are  still  striving  after 
further  culture,  must  always  desire  to  learn 
more  from  it. 

If  an  author  is  to  be  able  to  write  well  upon  a  theme,  he 
must  no  longer  feel  interest  in  it;  the  thought  which  is  to 
be  soberly  expressed  must  already  be  entirely  past  and 
must  no  longer  personally  concern  the  writer.  So  long  as 
the  artist  invents  and  is  inspired,  he  is  in  an  unfavorable 
situation,  at  least  for  communicating  his  concepts.  He  will 
then  wish  to  say  everything — a  false  tendency  of  young 
geniuses,  or  an  instinctively  correct  prejudice  of  old  bung- 
lers. In  this  way  he  mistakes  the  value  and  the  dignity  of 
self-restraint,  although  for  the  artist,  as  for  the  man,  this 
is  the  first  and  the  last,  the  most  needful  and  the  highest. 

We  should  never  appeal  to  the  spirit  of  antiquity  as  an 
authority.  There  is  this  peculiarity  about  spirits:  they 
cannot  be  grasped  with  the  hands  and  be  held  up  before 
others.  Spirits  reveal  themselves  only  to  spirits.  Here, 
too,  the  briefest  and  most  concise  course  would  doubtless 
be  to  prove,  through  good  works,  our  possession  of  the  faith 
which  alone  gives  salvation. 

He  who  desires  something  infinite  knows  not  what  he 
desires ;  but  the  converse  of  this  proposition  is  not  true. 

In  the  ordinary  kind  of  fair  or  even  good  translation  it 
is  precisely  the  best  part  of  a  work  that  is  lost. 

It  is  impossible  to  offend  a  man  if  he  will  not  be  offended. 

Every  honest  author  writes  for  no  one  or  for  all  men ;  he 
who  writes  that  this  one  or  that  one  may  read  him,  deserves 
not  to  be  read  at  all. 

[175] 


176  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

In  the  poetry  of  the  Ancients  we  see  the  perfection  of 
the  letter:  in  that  of  the  moderns  we  divine  the  growth  of 
the  spirit. 

The  Germans  are  said  to  be  the  foremost  nation  of  the 
world  as  regards  artistic  sense  and  scientific  genius.  Very 
true,  only  —  there  are  very  few  Germans. 

Almost  all  marriages  are  only  concubinages,  morganatic 
Avedlock,  or,  rather,  provisional  attempts  and  remote  ap- 
proximations to  a  real  marriage,  the  peculiar  essence  of 
which  consists  in  the  fact  that  more  than  one  person  are 
to  become  but  one,  not  in  accordance  with  the  paradoxes  of 
this  system  or  that,  but  in  harmony  with  all  spiritual  and 
temporal  laws.  A  fine  concept,  although  its  realization 
seems  to  have  many  grave  difficulties.  For  this  very  reason 
there  should  here  be  the  least  possible  restriction  of  the 
caprice  which  may  well  have  a  word  to  say  when  it  becomes 
a  question  of  whether  one  is  to  be  an  individual  in  himself 
or  is  to  be  merely  an  integral  part  of  a  corporate  person- 
ality; nor  is  it  easy  to  see  what  objections,  on  principle, 
could  be  made  to  a  marriage  a  quatre.  If  the  State,  how- 
ever, is  determined  to  hold  together,  even  by  force,  the 
unsuccessful  attempts  at  marriage,  it  thereby  impedes  the 
very  possibility  of  marriage,  which  might  be  furthered  by 
new  —  and  perhaps  happier  —  attempts. 

A  regiment  of  soldiers  on  parade  is,  according  to  some 
philosophers,  a  system. 

A  man  can  only  become  a  philosopher,  he  cannot  be  one ; 
so  soon  as  he  believes  that  he  is  one,  he  ceases  to  become 
one. 

The  printed  page  is  to  thought  what  a  nursery  is  to  the 
first  kiss. 

The  historian  is  a  prophet  looking  backward. 

There  are  people  whose  entire  activity  consists  in  saying 
*  *  No. ' '  It  would  be  no  small  thing  always  to  be  able  rightly 
to  say  * '  No, ' '  but  he  who  can  do  nothing  more,  surely  can- 


APHORISMS  177 

not  do  it  rightly.  The  taste  of  these  negationists  is  an 
admirable  shears  to  cleanse  the  extremities  of  genius; 
their  enlightenment  a  great  snuffer  for  the  flame  of  enthu- 
siasm; and  their  reason  a  mild  laxative  for  immoderate 
passion  and  love. 

Every  great  philosopher  has  always  so  explained  his 
predecessors  —  often  unintentionally  —  that  it  seemed  as 
though  they  had  not  in  the  least  been  understood  before 
him. 

As  a  transitory  condition  skepticism  is  logical  insurrec- 
tion ;  as  a  system  it  is  anarchy ;  skeptical  method  would  thus 
be  approximately  like  insurgent  government. 

At  the  phrases  *'  his  philosophy,"  *'  my  philosophy,"  we 
always  recall  the  words  in  Nathan  the  Wise:  "  Who  owns 
God  ?    What  sort  of  a  God  is  that  who  is  owned  by  a  man  % '  * 

What  happens  in  poetry  happens  never  or  always ;  other- 
wise, it  is  no  true  poetry.  We  ought  not  to  believe  that  it 
is  now  actually  happening. 

Women  have  absolutely  no  sense  of  art,  though  they  may 
have  of  poetry.  They  have  no  natural  disposition  for  the 
sciences,  though  they  may  have  for  philosophy.  They  are 
by  no  means  wanting  in  power  of  speculation  and  intuitive 
perception  of  the  infinite ;  they  lack  only  power  of  abstrac- 
tion, which  is  far  more  easy  to  be  learned. 

That  is  beautiful  which  is  charming  and  sublime  at  the 
same  time. 

Romantic  poetry  is  a  progressive  universal  poetry.  Its 
mission  is  not  merely  to  reunite  all  the  separate  categories 
of  poetry,  and  to  bring  poetry  into  contact  with  philosophy 
and  with  rhetoric.  It  will,  and  should,  also  now  mingle  and 
now  amalgamate  poetry  and  prose,  genius  and  criticism, 
artistic  poetry  and  natural  poetry ;  make  poetry  living  and 
social,  and  life  and  society  poetic ;  poetize  wit ;  and  fill  and 
saturate  the  forms  of  art  with  sterling  material  of  every 
kind,  and  inspire  them  with  the  vibrations  of  humor.  It 
Vol,  IV  — 12 


178  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

embraces  everything,  if  only  it  is  poetic  —  from  the  great- 
est system  of  art  which,  in  its  turn,  includes  many  systems 
within  itself,  down  to  the  sigh,  the  kiss,  which  the  musing 
child  breathes  forth  in  artless  song.  It  can  so  be  lost  in 
what  it  represents  that  it  might  be  supposed  that  its  one 
and  all  is  the  characterization  of  poetic  individuals  of  every 
type;  and  yet  no  form  has  thus  far  arisen  which  would  be 
equally  adapted  perfectly  to  express  the  author's  mind;  so 
that  many  artists  who  desired  only  to  write  a  romance  have 
more  or  less  described  themselves.  Romantic  poetry  alone 
can,  like  the  epic,  become  a  mirror  of  the  entire  world  that 
surrounds  it,  and  a  picture  of  its  age.  And  yet,  free  from 
all  real  and  ideal  interests,  it,  too,  most  of  all,  can  soar,  mid- 
way between  that  which  is  presented  and  him  who  presents, 
on  the  wings  of  poetic  reflection ;  it  can  ever  re-intensify 
this  reflection  and  multiply  it  as  in  an  endless  series  of 
mirrors.  It  is  capable  of  the  highest  and  of  the  most  uni- 
versal culture  —  not  merely  from  within  outward,  but  also 
from  without  inward  —  since  it  organizes  similarly  all  parts 
of  that  which  is  destined  to  become  a  whole;  thus  the  pros- 
pect of  an  endlessly  developing  classicism  is  opened  up  to 
it.  Among  the  arts  romantic  poetiy  is  what  wit  is  to  phi- 
losophy, and  what  society,  association,  friendship,  and  love 
are  in  life.  Other  types  of  poetry  are  finished,  and  can  now 
be  completely  analyzed.  The  romantic  tjq^e  of  poetry  is 
still  in  process  of  development;  indeed,  it  is  its  peculiar 
essence  that  it  can  eternally  only  be  in  process  of  develop- 
ment, and  that  it  can  never  be  completed.  It  can  be  ex- 
hausted by  no  theory,  and  only  a  divinatory  criticism  might 
dare  to  wish  to  characterize  its  ideal.  It  alone  is  infinite, 
even  as  it  alone  is  free;  and  as  its  first  law  it  recognizes 
that  the  arbitrariness  of  the  poet  brooks  no  superior  law. 
The  romantic  style  of  poetry  is  the  only  one  which  is  more 
than  a  style,  and  which  is,  as  it  were,  poetry  itself;  for  in 
a  certain  sense  all  poetry  is,  or  should  be,  romantic. 

In  the  ancients  every  man  has  found  what  he  needed  or 
desired  —  especially  himself. 


APHORISMS  179 

The  French  Revolution,  Fichle  's  Wissenschaftslehre,  and 
Goethe's  Wilhelm  Meister  are  the  three  greatest  tendencies 
of  the  age.  Whoever  is  offended  at  this  juxtaposition,  and 
whoever  can  deem  no  revolution  important  which  is  not 
boisterous  and  material,  has  not  yet  risen  to  the  broad  and 
lofty  vie^vpoint  of  the  history  of  mankind.  Even  in  our 
meagre  histories  of  culture,  which,  for  the  most  part, 
resemble  a  collection  of  variant  readings  accompanied  by 
a  running  commentary  the  classical  text  of  which  has  per- 
ished, many  a  little  book  of  which  the  noisy  rabble  took 
scant  notice  in  its  day,  plays  a  greater  role  than  all  that 
this  rabble  did. 

It  is  very  one-sided  and  presumptuous  to  assert  that  there 
is  only  one  Mediator.  To  the  ideal  Christian  —  and  in  this 
respect  the  unique  Spinoza  comes  nearest  to  being  one  — 
everything  ought  to  be  a  Mediator. 

He  alone  can  be  an  artist  who  has  a  religion  of  his  own, 
an  original  view  of  the  infinite. 

It  is  a  peculiar  trait  of  humanity  that  it  must  exalt  itself 
above  humanity. 

Plato 's  philosophy  is  a  worthy  preface  to  the  religion  of 
the  future. 

Man  is  free  when  he  brings  forth  God  or  makes  Him 
visible;  and  thereby  he  becomes  immortal. 

The  morality  of  a  book  lies  not  in  its  theme  or  in  the 
relation  of  the  writer  to  his  public,  but  in  the  spirit  of  the 
treatment.  If  this  breathes  the  full  abundance  of  humanity, 
it  is  moral.  If  it  is  merely  the  work  of  an  isolated  power 
and  art,  it  is  not  moral. 

He  is  an  artist  who  has  his  centre  within  himself.  He 
who  lacks  this  must  choose  a  definite  leader  and  mediator 
outside  himself  —  naturally,  not  forever,  but  only  at  the 
first.  For  without  a  living  centre  man  cannot  exist,  and  if 
he  does  not  yet  have  it  within  himself  he  can  seek  it  only 
in  a  human  being,  and  only  a  human  being  and  his  centre 
can  arouse  and  awaken  the  artist's  own. 


NOVA  LIS 

(Friedrich  von  Hardenberg) 


THE  STORY  OF  HYACINTH  AND  ROSEBLOSSOM 

From  The  Novices  at  Sms  (1798) 

TRANSLATED  BY  LILLIE  WINTER 

ONG  ages  ago  there  lived  in  the  far  west  a 
guileless  youth.  He  was  very  good,  but  at 
the  same  time  peculiar  beyond  measure. 
He  constantly  grieved  over  nothing  at  all, 
always  went  about  alone  and  silent,  sat 
down  by  himself  whenever  the  others  played  and  were 
happy,  and  was  always  thinking  about  strange  things. 
Woods  and  caves  were  his  favorite  haunts,  and  there  he 
talked  constantly  with  birds  and  animals,  with  rocks  and 
trees  —  naturally  not  a  word  of  sense,  nothing  but  stuff 
silly  enough  to  make  one  die  a-laughing.  Yet  he  continued 
to  remain  morose  and  grave  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  the 
squirrel,  the  long-tailed  monkey,  the  parrot,  and  the  bull- 
finch took  great  pains  to  distract  him  and  lead  him  into  the 
right  path.  The  goose  would  tell  fairy-tales,  and  in  the 
midst  of  them  the  brook  would  tinkle  a  ballad;  a  great 
heavy  stone  would  caper  about  ludicrously;  the  rose  steal- 
ing up  affectionately  behind  him  would  creep  through  his 
locks,  and  the  ivy  stroke  his  careworn  forehead.  But  his 
melancholy  and  his  gravity  were  obstinate.  His  parents 
were  greatly  grieved;  they  did  not  know  what  to  do.  He 
was  healthy  and  ate  well.  His  parents  had  never  hurt  his 
feelings,  nor  until  a  few  years  since  had  any  one  been  more 
cheerful  and  lively  than  he ;  always  he  had  been  at  the  head 
of  every  game,  and  was  well  liked  by  all  the  girls.  He  was 
very  handsome  indeed,  looked  like  a  picture,  danced  beauti- 
fully. Among  the  girls  there  was  one  sweet  and  very  pretty 
child.     She  looked  as  though  she  were  of  wax,  with  hair 

(1801 


Permission  Bard-Marquardl  cf  Co.,  Berlin 

NOVALIS 
(Friedrich  vou  Hardenbcrg) 


Eduard  Eichens 


STORY   OF   HYACINTH  AND   ROSEBLOSSOM     181 

like  silk  spun  of  gold,  lips  as  red  as  cherries,  a  figure  like  a 
little  doll,  eyes  black  as  the  raven.  Such  was  her  charm 
that  whoever  saw  her  might  have  pined  away  with  love. 
At  that  time  Roseblossom,  that  was  her  name,  cherished 
a  heart-felt  affection  for  the  handsome  Hyacinth,  that  was 
his  name,  and  he  loved  her  with  all  his  life.  The  other 
children  did  not  know  it.  A  little  violet  had  been  the  first 
to  tell  them;  the  house-cats  had  noticed  it,  to  be  sure,  for 
their  parents'  homes  stood  near  each  other.  When,  there- 
fore. Hyacinth  was  standing  at  night  at  his  window  and 
Roseblossom  at  hers,  and  the  pussies  ran  by  on  a  mouse- 
hunt,  they  would  see  both  standing,  and  would  often  laugh 
and  titter  so  loudly  that  the  children  would  hear  them  and 
grow  angry.  The  violet  had  confided  it  to  the  strawberry, 
she  told  it  to  her  friend,  the  gooseberry,  and  she  never 
stopped  taunting  when  Hyacinth  passed ;  so  that  very  soon 
the  whole  garden  and  the  goods  heard  the  news,  and  when- 
ever Hyacinth  went  out  they  called  on  every  side :  '  *  Little 
Roseblossom  is  my  sweetheart!"  Now  Hyacinth  was 
vexed,  and  again  he  could  not  help  laughing  from  the  bot- 
tom of  his  heart  when  the  lizard  would  come  sliding  up,  seat 
himself  on  a  warm  stone,  wag  his  little  tail,  and  sing : 

Little  Roseblossom,  good  and  kind, 
Suddenly   was   stricken  blind. 
Her  mother  Hyacinth  she  thought 
And  to  embrace  him  forthwith  sought. 
But  when  she  felt  the  face  was  strange. 
Just  think,  no  terror  made  her  change! 
But  on  his  cheek  pressed  she  her  kiss, 
And  she  had  noted  naught  amiss. 

Alas,  how  soon  did  all  this  bliss  pass  away !  There  came 
along  a  man  from  foreign  lands;  he  had  traveled  every- 
where, had  a  long  beard,  deep-set  eyes,  terrible  eyebrows, 
a  strange  cloak  with  many  folds  and  queer  figures  woven  in 
it.  He  seated  himself  in  front  of  the  house  that  belonged 
to  Hyacinth 's  parents.  Now  Hyacinth  was  very  curious  and 
sat  down  beside  him  and  fetched  him  bread  and  wine. 
Then  the  man  parted  his  white  beard  and  told  stories  until 


182  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

late  at  night  and  Hyacinth  did  not  stir  nor  did  he  tire  of 
listening.  As  far  as  one  could  learn  afterward  the  man  had 
related  much  about  foreign  lands,  unknown  regions,  aston- 
ishingly wondrous  things,  staying  there  three  days  and 
creeping  down  into  deep  pits  with  Hyacinth.  Roseblossom 
cursed  the  old  sorcerer  enough,  for  Hyacinth  was  all  eager- 
ness for  his  tales  and  cared  for  nothing,  scarcely  even 
eating  a  little  food.  Finally  the  man  took  his  departure, 
not,  however,  without  leaving  Hyacinth  a  booklet  that  not 
a  soul  could  read.  The  youth  had  even  given  him  fruit, 
bread,  and  wine  to  take  along  and  had  accompanied  him  a 
long  way.  Then  he  came  back  melancholy  and  began  an 
entirely  new  mode  of  life.  Roseblossom  grieved  for  him 
very  pitifully,  for  from  that  time  on  he  paid  little  attention 
to  her  and  always  kept  to  himself. 

Now  it  came  about  that  he  leturned  home  one  day  and 
was  like  one  new-born.  He  fell  on  his  parents'  neck  and 
wept.  * '  I  must  depart  for  foreign  lands, ' '  he  said ;  '  *  the 
strange  old  woman  in  the  forest  told  me  that  I  must  get 
well  again ;  she  threw  the  book  into  the  fire  and  urged  me  to 
come  to  you  and  ask  for  your  blessing.  Perhaps  I  shall  be 
back  soon,  perhaps  never  more.  Say  good-bye  to  Rose- 
blossom for  me.  I  should  have  liked  to  speak  to  her,  I  do 
not  know  what  is  the  matter,  something  drives  me  away; 
whenever  I  want  to  think  of  old  times,  mightier  thoughts 
rush  in  immediately;  my  peace  is  gone,  my  courage  and 
love  with  it,  I  must  go  in  quest  of  them.  I  should  like  to  tell 
you  whither,  but  I  do  not  know  myself ;  thither  where  dwells 
the  mother  of  all  things,  the  veiled  virgin.  For  her  my 
heart  burns.    Farewell ! ' ' 

He  tore  himself  away  and  departed.  His  parents 
lamented  and  shed  tears.  Roseblossom  kept  in  her  chamber 
and  wept  bitterly.  Hyacinth  now  hastened  as  fast  as  he 
could  through  valleys  and  wildernesses,  across  mountains 
and  streams,  toward  the  mysterious  country.  Everywhere 
he  asked  men  and  animals,  rocks  and  trees,  for  the  sacred 
goddess  (Isis).    Some  laughed,  some  were  silent,  nowhere 


STORY  OF   HYACINTH   AND   ROSEBLOSSOM     183 

did  he  receive  an  answer.  At  first  be  passed  through  wild, 
uninhabited  regions,  mist  and  clouds  obstructed  his  path, 
it  was  always  storming;  later  he  found  unbounded  deserts 
of  glowing  hot  sand,  and  as  he  wandered  his  mood  changed, 
time  seemed  to  grow  longer,  and  his  inner  unrest  was 
calmed.  He  became  more  tranquil  and  the  violent  excite- 
ment within  him  was  gradually  transformed  to  a  gentle  but 
strong  impulse,  which  took  possession  of  his  whole  nature. 
It  seemed  as  though  many  years  lay  behind  him.  Now,  too, 
the  region  again  became  richer  and  more  varied,  the  air 
warm  and  blue,  the  path  more  level ;  green  bushes  attracted 
him  with  their  pleasant  shade  but  he  did  not  understand 
their  language,  nor  did  they  seem  to  speak,  and  yet  they 
filled  his  heart  with  verdant  colors,  with  quiet  and  fresh- 
ness. Mightier  and  mightier  grew  within  him  that  sweet 
longing,  broader  and  softer  the  leaves,  noisier  and  happier 
the  birds  and  animals,  balmier  the  fruits,  darker  the 
heavens,  warmer  the  air  and  more  fiery  his  love;  faster  and 
faster  passed  the  Time,  as  though  it  knew  that  it  was  ap- 
proaching the  goal. 

One  day  he  came  upon  a  crystal  spring  and  a  bevy  of 
flowers  that  were  going  down  to  a  valley  between  black 
columns  reaching  to  the  sky.  With  familiar  words  they 
greeted  him  kindly.  "  My  dear  countrymen,"  he  said, 
'  *  pray,  where  am  I  to  find  the  sacred  abode  of  Isis  ?  It 
must  be  somewhere  in  this  vicinity,  and  you  are  probably 
better  acquainted  here  than  I. "  ^ '  We,  too,  are  only  pass- 
ing through  this  region, ' '  the  flowers  answered ;  "  a  family 
of  spirits  is  traveling  and  we  are  making  ready  the  road 
and  preparing  lodgings  for  them;  but  we  came  through  a 
region  lately  where  we  heard  her  name  called.  Just  walk 
upward  in  the  direction  from  which  we  are  coming  and  you 
will  be  sure  to  learn  more."  The  flowers  and  the  spring 
smiled  as  they  said  this,  offered  him  a  drink  of  fresh  water, 
and  went  on. 

Hyacinth  followed  their  advice,  asked  and  asked,  and 
finally  reached  that  long-sought  dwelling  concealed  behind 


184  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

palms  and  other  choice  plants.  His  heart  beat  with  infinite 
longing  and  the  most  delicious  yearning  thrilled  him  in  this 
abode  of  the  eternal  seasons.  Amid  heavenly  fragrance  he 
fell  into  slumber,  since  naught  but  dreams  might  lead  him 
to  the  most  sacred  place.  To  the  tune  of  charming  melodies 
and  in  changing  harmonies  did  his  dream  guide  him 
mysteriously  through  endless  apartments  filled  with  curious 
things.  Everything  seemed  so  familiar  to  him  and  yet  amid 
a  splendor  that  he  had  never  seen ;  then  evenTEelast  tinge 
of  earthliness  vanished  as  though  dissipated  in  the  air,  and 
he  stood  before  the  celestial  virgin.  He  lifted  the  filmy, 
shimmering  veil  and  Roseblossom  fell  into  his  arms.  From 
afar  a  strain  of  music  accompanied  the  mystery  of  the  lov- 
ing reunion,  the  outpourings  of  their  longing,  and  excluded 
all  that  was  alien  from  this  delightful  spot.  After  that 
Hyacinth  lived  many  years  with  Roseblossom  near  his 
happy  parents  and  comrades,  and  innumerable  grand- 
children thanked  the  mysterious  old  woman  for  her  advice 
and  her  fire ;  for  at  that  time  people  got  as  many  children 
as  they  wanted. 


APHORISMS* 

By  NovAUS 

TRANSLATED  BY   FREDERIC   H.   HEDGE 

HERE  no  gods  are,  spectres  rule. 

The  best  thing  that  the  French  achieved  by 
their  Revolution,  was  a  portion  of  Germanity. 

J  Germanity    is    genuine    popularity,    and 

therefore  an  ideal. 
Where  children  are,  there  is  the  golden  age. 

Spirit  is  now  active  here  and  there :  when  will  Spirit  be 
active  in  the  whole?  When  will  mankind,  in  the  mass, 
begin  to  consider? 

Nature  is  pure  Past,  foregone  freedom;  and  therefore, 
throughout,  the  soil  of  history. 

The  antithesis  of  body  and  spirit  is  one  of  the  most  re- 
markable and  dangerous  of  all  antitheses.  It  has  played  an 
important  part  in  history. 

Only  by  comparing  ourselves,  as  men,  with  other  rational 
beings,  could  we  know  what  we  truly  are,  what  position  we 
occupy. 

The  history  of  Christ  is  as  surely  poetry  as  it  is  history. 
And,  in  general,  only  that  history  is  history  which  might 
also  be  fable. 

The  Bible  begins  gloriously  with  Paradise,  the  symbol 
of  youth,  and  ends  with  the  everlasting  kingdom,  with  the 
holy  city.     The  histoiy  of  every  man  should  be  a  Bible. 

Prayer  is  to  religion  what  thinking  is  to  philosophy.  To 
pray  is  to  make  religion. 

The  more  sinful  man  feels  himself,  the  more  Christian 
he  is. 

Christianity  is  opposed  to  science,  to  art,  to  enjoyment 
in  the  proper  sense. 

•  Permission  Porter  &  Coates,  Philadelphia. 

[185] 


186  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

It  goes  forth  from  the  common  man.  It  inspires  the  great 
majority  of  the  limited  on  earth. 

It  is  the  germ  of  all  democracy,  the  highest  fact  in  the 
domain  of  the  popular. 

Light  is  the  symbol  of  genuine  self-possession.  There- 
fore light,  according  to  analogy,  is  the  action  of  the  self- 
contact  of  matter.  Accordingly,  day  is  the  consciousness  of 
the  planet,  and  while  the  sun,  like  a  god,  in  eternal  self- 
action,  inspires  the  centre,  one  planet  after  another  closes 
one  eye  for  a  longer  or  shorter  time,  and  with  cool  sleep 
refreshes  itself  for  new  life  and  contemplation.  Accord- 
ingly, here,  too,  there  is  religion.  For  is  the  life  of  the 
planets  aught  else  but  sun-worship? 

The  Holy  Ghost  is  more  than  the  Bible.  This  should  be 
our  teacher  of  religion,  not  the  dead,  earthly,  equivocal 
letter. 

All  faith  is  miraculous,  and  worketh  miracles. 

Sin  is  indeed  the  real  evil  in  the  world.  All  calamity 
proceeds  from  that.  He  who  understands  sin,  understands 
virtue  and  Christianity,  himself  and  the  world. 

The  greatest  of  miracles  is  a  virtuous  act. 

If  a  man  could  suddenly  believe,  in  sincerity,  that  he  was 
moral,  he  would  be  so. 

We  need  not  fear  to  admit  that  man  has  a  preponderating 
tendency  to  evil.  So  much  the  better  is  he  by  nature,  for 
only  the  unlike  attracts. 

Everything  distinguished  (peculiar)  deserves  ostracism. 
Well  for  it  if  it  ostracizes  itself.  Everything  absolute  must 
quit  the  world. 

A  time  will  come,  and  that  soon,  when  all  men  will  be 
convinced  that  there  can  be  no  king  without  a  republic,  and 
no  republic  without  a  king;  that  both  are  as  inseparable  as 
body  and  soul.  The  true  king  will  be  a  republic,  the  true 
republic  a  king. 


APHORISMS  187 

In  cheerful  souls  there  is  no  wit.  "Wit  shows  a  disturb- 
ance of  the  equipoise. 

Most  people  know  not  how  interesting  they  are,  what 
interesting  things  they  really  utter.  A  true  representation 
of  themselves,  a  record  and  estimate  of  their  sayings,  would 
make  them  astonished  at  themselves,  would  help  them  to 
discover  in  themselves  an  entirely  new  world. 

Man  is  the  Messiah  of  Nature. 

The  soul  is  the  most  powerful  of  all  poisons.  It  is  the 
most  penetrating  and  diffusible  stimulus. 

Every  sickness  is  a  musical  problem;  the  cure  is  the 
musical  solution. 

Inoculation  with  death,  also,  will  not  be  wanting  in  some 
future  universal  therapy. 

The  idea  of  a  perfect  health  is  interesting  only  in  a 
scientific  point  of  view.  Sickness  is  necessary  to  indi- 
vidualization. 

If  God  could  be  man,  he  can  also  be  stone,  plant,  animal, 
element,  and  perhaps,  in  this  way,  there  is  a  continuous 
redemption  in  Nature. 

Life  is  a  disease  of  the  spirit,  a  passionate  activity.  Rest 
is  the  peculiar  property  of  the  spirit.  From  the  spirit 
comes  gravitation. 

As  nothing  can  be  free,  so,  too,  nothing  can  be  forced, 
but  spirit. 

A  space-filling  individual  is  a  body;  a  time-filling  indi- 
vidual is  a  soul. 

It  should  be  inquired  whether  Nature  has  not  essentially 
changed  with  the  progress  of  culture. 

All  activity  ceases  when  knowledge  comes.  The  state  of 
knowing  is  eiidamonism,  blest  repose  of  contemplation, 
heavenly  quietism. 


188  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

Miracles,  as  contradictions  of  Nature,  are  amathematical. 
But  there  are  no  miracles  in  this  sense.  What  we  so  term, 
is  intelligible  precisely  by  means  of  mathematics ;  for  noth- 
ing is  miraculous  to  mathematics. 

In  music,  mathematics  appears  formally,  as  revelation, 
as  creative  idealism.  All  enjoyment  is  musical,  conse- 
quently mathematical.    The  highest  life  is  mathematics. 

There  may  be  mathematicians  of  the  first  magnitude  who 
cannot  cipher.  One  can  be  a  great  cipherer  without  a  con- 
ception of  mathematics. 

Instinct  is  genius  in  Paradise,  before  the  period  of  self- 
abstraction  (self -recognition). 

The  fate  which  oppresses  us  is  the  sluggishness  of  our 
spirit.  By  enlargement  and  cultivation  of  our  activity,  we 
change  ourselves  into  fate.  Everything  appears  to  stream 
in  upon  us,  because  we  do  not  stream  out.  We  are  negative, 
because  we  choose  to  be  so;  the  more  positive  we  become, 
the  more  negative  will  the  world  around  us  be,  until,  at 
last,  there  is  no  more  negative,  and  we  are  all  in  all.  God 
wills  gods. 

All  power  appears  only  in  transition.  Permanent  power 
is  stuff. 

Every  act  of  introversion  —  every  glance  into  our  in- 
terior —  is  at  the  same  time  ascension,  going  up  to  heaven, 
a  glance  at  the  veritable  outward. 

Only  so  far  as  a  man  is  happily  married  to  himself,  is  he 
fit  for  married  life  and  family  life,  generally. 

One  must  never  confess  that  one  loves  one's  self.  The 
secret  of  this  confession  is  the  life-principle  of  the  only 
true  and  eternal  love. 

We  conceive  God  as  personal,  just  as  we  conceive  our- 
selves personal.  God  is  just  as  personal  and  as  individual 
as  we  are ;  for  what  we  call  /  is  not  our  true  /,  but  only  its 
off  glance. 


HYMN  TO  NIGHT  (1800) 

By  NovALis 

TRANSLATED  BY   PAUL  B,   THOMAS 

HO,  that  hath  life  and  the  gift  of  perception, 
loves  not  more  than  all  the  marvels  seen  far 
and  wide  in  the  space  about  him  Light,  theu 
all-gladdening,  with  its  colors,  with  its  beams 
and  its  waves,  its  mild  omnipresence  as  the 
arousing  day"?  The  giant  world  of  restless  stars  breathes 
it,  as  were  it  the  innermost  soul  of  life,  and  lightly  floats  in 
its  azure  flood;  the  stone  breathes  it,  sparkling  and  ever 
at  rest,  and  the  dreamy,  drinking  plant,  and  the  savage, 
ardent,  manifold-fashioned  beast;  but  above  all  the  glori- 
ous stranger  with  the  thoughtful  eyes,  the  airy  step,  and 
the  lightly-closed,  melodious  lips.  Like  a  king  of  terrestrial 
nature  it  calls  every  power  to  countless  transformations, 
it  forms  and  dissolves  innumerable  alliances  and  surrounds 
every  earthly  creature  with  its  heavenly  effulgence.  Its 
presence  alone  reveals  the  marvelous  splendor  of  the 
realms  of  the  world. 

Downward  I  turn  my  eyes  to  Night,  the  holy,  ineffable, 
mysterious.  Far  below  lies  the  world,  sunk  in  a  deep  vault; 
void  and  lonely  is  its  place.  Deep  melancholy  is  wafted 
through  the  chords  of  the  breast.  In  drops  of  dew  I'd  fain 
sink  down  and  mingle  with  the  ashes.  Far-off  memories, 
desires  of  youth,  dreams  of  childhood,  long  life's  brief 
joys  and  vain  hopes  appear  in  gray  garments  like  the  even- 
ing mist  after  sunset.  Light  has  pitched  its  gay  tents  in 
other  regions.  Will  it  perchance  never  return  to  its  chil- 
dren, who  are  waiting  for  it  with  the  faith  of  innocence  ? 

What  is  it  that  suddenly  wells  up  so  forebodingly  from 
beneath  the  heart  and  smothers  the  gentle  breath  of  melan- 
choly? Dark  Night,  dost  thou  also  take  pleasure  in  usf 
What  hast  thou  beneath  thy  mantle  which  touches  my  soul 
with  invisible  force  ?  Precious  balsam  drops  from  the  bunch 

[189] 


190  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

of  poppies  in  thy  hand.  Thou  raises!  up  the  heavy  wings 
of  the  soul;  vaguely  and  inexpressibly  we  feel  ourselves 
moved.  Joyously  fearful,  I  see  an  earnest  face,  which 
gently  and  reverently  bends  over  me,  and  amid  endlessly 
entangled  locks  shows  the  sweet  youth  of  the  mother.  How 
poor  and  childish  does  Light  seem  to  me  now!  How  joyful 
and  blessed  the  departure  of  day!  Only  for  that  reason, 
then,  because  Night  turns  thy  servants  from  thee,  didst 
thou  scatter  in  the  wide  expanse  of  space  the  shining  stars, 
to  make  knowTi  thine  omnipotence  and  thy  return,  during 
the  periods  of  thine  absence?  More  heavenly  than  those 
twinkling  stars  seem  to  us  the  everlasting  eyes  which  Night 
has  opened  within  us.  Farther  they  see  than  the  palest  of 
those  numberless  hosts ;  not  needing  light,  they  fathom  the 
depths  of  a  loving  heart,  filling  a  higher  space  with  unspeak- 
able delight. 

Praise  be  to  the  queen  of  the  world,  to  the  high  harbinger 
of  holy  worlds,  to  the  f ostress  of  blissful  love !  She  sends 
thee  to  me,  gentle  sweetheart,  lovely  sun  of  the  night.  Now 
I  am  awake,  for  I  am  thine  and  mine ;  thou  hast  proclaimed 
to  me  that  night  is  life  and  made  a  man  of  me.  Consume 
my  body  with  spiritual  fire,  that  I  may  ethereally  blend 
with  thee,  and  then  the  bridal  night  may  last  forever. 

"THOUGH  NONE  THY  NAME  SHOULD 
CHERISH"* 

Though  none  Thy  Name  should  cherish. 

My  faith  shall  be  the  same, 
Lest  gratitude  should  perish 

And  earth  be  brought  to  shame. 
With  meekness  Thou  did'st  suffer 

The  pangs  of  death  for  me. 
With  joy  then  I  would  offer 

This  heart  for  aye  to  Thee. 


•  Translator :  Charles  Wharton  Stork. 
From  Spiritual  Songa   (1799). 


Hx)IM 


Vk5i:5lL.^^ 


ip  the  hea^  ^ 

'I  ours 


THE  QUEEN  OF  NIQHT 


st  of 


id  mine;  tliou  hast  procla 


OULD 


From  the  Fair  "^chwind 


!ld  perish 


-i        ?!       fT   I. 

T  me, 


NOVALIS:     POEMS  191 

I  weep  with  strong  emotion 

That  death  has  been  Thy  lot, 
And  yet  that  Thy  devotion 

Thy  people  have  forgot. 
The  blessings  of  salvation 

Thy  perfect  love  has  won, 
Yet  who  in  any  nation 

Regards  what  Thou  hast  done? 

With  love  Thou  hast  protected 

Each  man  his  whole  life  through ; 
Though  all  Thy  care  rejected, 

No  less  would 'st  Thou  be  true. 
Such  love  as  Thine  must  vanquish 

The  proudest  soul  at  last, 
'Twill  turn  to  Thee  in  anguish 

And  to  Thy  knees  cling  fast. 

Thine  influence  hath  bound  me; 

Oh,  if  it  be  Thy  will, 
Be  evermore  around  me. 

Be  present  with  me  still ! 
At  length  too  shall  the  others 

Look  up  and  long  for  rest. 
And  all  my  loving  brothers 

Shall  sink  upon  Thy  breast. 

TO  THE  VIRGIN* 

A  THOUSAND  hands,  devoutly  tender. 
Have  sought  thy  beauty  to  express, 

But  none,  oh  Mary,  none  can  render. 
As  my  soul  sees,  thy  loveliness. 

I  gaze  till  earth's  confusion  fadeth 
Like  to  a  dream,  and  leaves  behind 

A  heaven  of  sweetness  which  pervadeth 
My  whole  rapt  being  —  heart  and  mind. 


•  Translator :   Charles  Wharton  Stork. 
From  Spiritual  Songs   (1799). 


FRIEDRICH  HOLDERLIN 


HYPERION'S  SONG  OF  FATE*  (1799) 

E  wander  there  in  the  light 

On    flower-soft    fields,    ye    blest    immortal 
Spirits. 

Radiant  godlike  zephyrs 

Touch  you  as  gently 
As  the  hand  of  a  master  might 
Touch  the  awed  lute-string. 
Free  of  fate  as  the  slumbering 
Infant,  breathe  the  divine  ones. 
Guarded  well 
In  the  firm-sheathed  bud 
Blooms  eternal 
Each  happy  soul ; 
And  their  rapture-lit  eyes 
Shine  with  a  tranquil 
Unchanging  lustre. 
But  we,  'tis  our  portion, 
We  never  may  be  at  rest. 
They  stumble,  they  vanish, 
The  suffering  mortals. 
Hurtling  from  one  hard 
Hour  to  another. 
Like  waves  that  are  driven 
From  cliff-side  to  clift'-side. 
Endlessly  down  the  uncertain  abyss. 

EVENING  PHANTASIE*  (1799) 

Before  his  hut  reposes  in  restful  shade 
The  ploughman ;  wreaths  of  smoke  from  his  hearth  ascend. 
And  sweet  to  wand'rers  comes  the  tone  of 
Evening  bells  from  the  peaceful  village. 


•  Translator :  Charles  Wharton  Stork. 

[192] 


HOLDERLIN:     POEMS  193 

The  sailor  too  puts  into  the  haven  now, 
In  distant  cities  cheerily  dies  away 
The  busy  tumult;  in  the  arbor 
Gleams  the  festal  repast  of  friendship. 

But  whither  I?    In  labor,  for  slight  reward 
We  mortals  live ;  in  alternate  rest  and  toil 

Contentment  dwells;  but  why  then  sleeps  not 
Hid  in  my  bosom  the  thorn  unsparing? 

The  ev'ning  heaven  blooms  as  with  springtime's  hue; 
Uncounted  bloom  the  roses,  the  golden  vorld 
Seems  wrapt  in  peace;  oh,  bear  me  thither, 
Purple-wrought  clouds!    And  may  for  me  there 

Both  love  and  grief  dissolve  in  the  joyous  light  I 
But  see,  as  if  dispelled  by  the  foolish  prayer. 
The  wonder  fades !     'Tis  dark,  and  lonely 
Under  the  heaven  I  stand  as  erstwhile. 

Come  then  to  me,  soft  Sleep.    Overmuch  requires 
The  heart ;  and  yet  thou  too  at  the  last  shalt  fade, 
Oh  youth,  thou  restless  dream-pursuer ! 
Peaceful  and  happy  shall  age  then  follow. 

Vox.  IV— 13 


LUDWIG  TIECK 


PUSS  IN  BOOTS  (1797) 

A  fairy-tale  for  children  in  three  acts,  with  interludes,  a 
prologue  and  an  epilogue. 

TRANSLATED  BY  LILLIE   WINTER,  B.A. 


DRAMATIS  PERSONiE 


}■ 


The  King 

The  Princess,  his  daughter 

Prince  Nathaniel  of  Malsinki 

Leandeb,  Court  scholar 

Hanswurst,  Court  fool 

A  Groom  of  the  Chamber 

The  Cook 

LORENZ 

Babthel    \'Peasant  brothers 
Gottlieb 
Hinze^  a  tom-cat 
A  Tavern-keeper 

mc^EL   |^««»«"*» 

A  Bugbear 
A  Peace-maker 
The  Playicright 
A  Soldier 
Tico  Hussars 
Two  Lovers 
Servants 
Musicians 


A  Peasant 
The  Prompter 
A  Shoemaker 
A  Historian 
Fischer 

MtJLLER 

Bottichee 

Leutner 

Wiesener 

Wiesener's  neighbor 

Elephan  ts 

Lions 

Bears 

An  officer 

Eagles  and  other  birds 

A  rabbit 

Partridges 

Jupiter 

Terkaleon 

The  Machinist 

Spirits 

Monkeys 

The  Public. 


[104] 


LUDWIG  TIECK 


V'OGEL    VON    VOGELSTEINT 


PUSS  IN  BOOTS 


195 


T 


PROLOGUE 

'E'E  scene  is  laid  in  the  pit,  the  candles  are  already  lighted, 
the  musicians  are  gathered  in  the  orchestra.  The  theatre  is 
filled,  people  talking  in  confusion,  some  arriving,  etc. 


Fischer,  Muller,  Schlosser,  Botticher,  in  the  pit 

Fischer.  Say,  but  I  am  curious,  Herr  Muller,  what  do  you 
think  of  today's  play? 

MiJLLER.  I  should  be  more  likely  to  expect  the  sky  to  fall 
in  than  to  see  such  a  play  at  our  theatre. 

Fischer.     Do  you  know  the  play? 

Muller.  Not  at  all.  A  strange  title  that :  Puss  in  Boots. 
I  do  hope  they're  not  going  to  present  that 
child's  play  at  the  theatre. 

ScHLOss.     Why,  is  it  an  opera? 

Fischer.  Anything  but  that ;  the  bill  says :  A  Fairy-tale 
for  Children. 

ScHLOss.  A  fairy-tale  ?  But  in  Heaven 's  name,  we  're  not 
children,  are  we,  that  they  want  to  present 
such  pieces  for  us?  They  certainly  won't  put 
an  actual  cat  on  the  stage,  will  they? 

Fischer.  It  may  turn  out  to  be  an  imitation  of  the  new 
Arcadians,  a  sort  of  Terkaleon. 

Muller.  Now  that  wouldn't  be  bad,  for  I've  been  wishing 
this  long  while  to  see  some  time  such  a  wonder- 
ful opera  without  music. 

Fischer.  Without  music  it  is  absurd,  for,  my  dear  friend, 
we're  beyond  such  childish  nonsense,  such 
superstition;  enlightenment  has  borne  its 
natural  fruits. 

MiJLLER.  It  may  turn  out  to  be  a  regular  picture  of  do- 
mestic life,  and  the  cat  is  only  a  joke,  some- 
thing like  a  jest,  so  to  speak,  a  motive,  if  I 
may  call  it  that. 


196 


THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 


ScHLoss.  To  tell  you  my  honest  opinion,  I  take  the  whole 
thing  to  be  a  trick  to  spread  sentiment  among 
the  people,  give  them  suggestions.  You'll  see 
if  I'm  not  right.  A  revolutionary  play,  as  far 
as  I  can  understand. 

Fischer.  I  agree  with  you,  too,  for  otherwise  the  style 
would  be  horribly  offensive.  For  my  part  I 
must  admit  I  never  could  believe  in  witches  or 
spirits,  not  to  mention  Puss  in  Boots. 

ScHLOss.  The  age  of  these  phantoms  is  past.  Why,  there 
comes  Leutner;  perhaps  he  can  tell  us  more. 
[Le7itner  pushes  himself  through  the  crowd.] 

Leutnee.  Good  evening,  good  evening!  Well,  how  are 
you? 

MtJLLER.  Do  tell  us,  will  you,  what  sort  of  play  we  're  hav- 
ing tonight? 


Leutner. 


[The  music  begins.] 

So  late  already?    Why,  I've  come  in  the  nick  of 

time.     About   the   play?     I   have   just   been 

speaking  with  the  author ;  he  is  at  the  theatre 

N  and  helping  dress  the  tom-cat. 

Many  voices.     Is  helping?  —  The  author?  —  The  cat?  So  a 

cat  will  appear,  after  all? 

Yes,  indeed,  why  his  name  is  even  on  the  bill. 

I  say,  who 's  playing  that  part  ? 

The  strange  actor,  of  course,  the  great  man. 

Indeed?  But  how  can  they  possibly  play  such 
nonsense? 

For  a  change,  the  author  thinks. 

A  fine  change,  why  not  Bluebeard  too,  and 
Prince  Kobold  ?  Indeed !  Some  excellent  sub- 
jects for  the  drama! 

But  how  are  they  going  to  dress  the  cat? — And 
I  wonder  whether  he  wears  real  boots  ? 

I  am  just  as  impatient  as  all  of  you. 

But  shall  we  really  have  such  stuff  played  to  us  ? 
We've  come  here  out  of  curiosity,  to  be  sure, 
but  still  we  have  taste. 


Leutner. 

Fischer. 

Leutner. 

MiJLLER. 

Leutner. 
Fischer. 


MiJLLER. 

Leutner 
Fischer. 


PUSS  IN  BOOTS 


197 


MiJLLER.      I  feel  like  making  a  noise. 

Leutner.    It's  rather  cold,  too.     I'll  make  a  start.     {He 

stamps  with  his  feet,  the  others  fall  in.) 
WiESENER  {on  the  other  side).    What  does  this  pounding 

mean? 
Leutner.    That's  to  rescue  good  taste. 
WiESENER.  Well,   then   I  won't  be   the  last,  either.     {He 

stamps.) 
Voices.       Be  quiet,  or  you  can't  hear  the  music.    {All  are 

stamping.) 
ScHLoss.     But,   I  say,   we   really   ought  to   let  them   go 

through  the  play,  for,  after  all,  we've  given 

our  money  anyhow;  afterward  we'll  pound  so 

they'll  hear  us  out  doors. 
All.  No,     now,     now  —  taste — rules  —  art  —  other- 

wise everything  will  go  to  ruin. 
A  Candle-snuffer.    Gentlemen,  shall  the  police  be  sent  in? 
Leutner.    We  have  paid,   we   represent  the   public,   and 

therefore  we  will  have  our  own  good  taste  and 

no  farces. 
The  Playwright  {behind  the  scenes).    The  play  will  begin 

immediately. 
MiJLLER.      No  play  —  we  want  no  play  —  we  want  good 

taste 

All.  Good  taste !  good  taste ! 

Playwr.     I  am  puzzled  —  what  do  you  mean,  if  I  may  ask? 

ScHLoss.     Good  taste !    Are  you  an  author  and  don 't  even 

know  what  good  taste  means? 

Playwr.     Consider  a  young  beginner 

ScHLOss.     We  want  to  know  nothing  about  beginners  — 

we  want  to  see  a  decent  play  —  a  play  in  good 

taste ! 
Playwr.     What  sort?    What  kind? 
MiJLLER.      Domestic    stories  —  elopements  —  brothers   and 

sisters    from    the    country  —  something    like 

that. 

[The  Author  comes  out  from  behind  the 
curtain.] 


198 


THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 


Playwr.     Gentlemen 

All.  Is  that  the  author? 

Fischer.     He  doesn't  look  much  like  an  author. 

ScHLoss.     Impertinent  fellow! 

MiJLLER.      His  hair  isn't  even  trimmed. 

Playwr.      Gentlemen  —  pardon  my  boldness. 

Fischer.  How  can  you  write  such  plays"?  Why  haven't 
you  trained  yourself? 

Playwr.  Grant  me  just  one  minute 's  audience  before  you 
condemn  me.  I  know  that  the  honorable  pub- 
lic must  pass  judgment  on  the  author,  and 
that  from  them  there  is  no  appeal,  but  I  know 
the  justice  of  an  honorable  public,  and  I  am 
assured  they  will  not  frighten  me  away  from 
a  course  in  which  I  so  need  their  indulgent 
guidance. 

Fischer.    He  doesn't  talk  badly. 

MiJLLER.      He's  more  courteous  than  I  thought. 

ScHLoss.     He  has  respect  for  the  public,  after  all. 

Playwr.  I  am  ashamed  to  present  to  such  illustrious 
judges  the  modest  inspiration  of  my  Muse ;  it 
is  only  the  skill  of  our  actors  which  still  con- 
soles me  to  some  extent,  otherwise  I  should 
be  sunk  in  despair  without  further  ado. 

Fischer.     I  am  sorry  for  him. 

MiJLLER.      A  good  fellow ! 

Playwr.  When  I  heard  your  worthy  stamping  —  nothing 
has  ever  frightened  me  so,  I  am  still  pale  and 
trembling  and  do  not  myself  comprehend  how 
I  have  attained  to  the  courage  of  thus  appear- 
ing before  you. 

Leutner.    Well,  clap,  then !     (All  clap.) 

Playwr.  I  wanted  to  make  an  attempt  to  furnish  amuse- 
ment by  means  of  humor,  by  cheerfulness  and 
real  jokes,  and  hope  I  have  been  successful, 
since  our  newest  plays  so  seldom  afford  us  an 
opportunity  to  laugh. 


•if.    X  Si  i  ' 


4. 


■|*:  « 


;r-- 


y. 


Permission  Velhagen  6"  Klasing,  Bielefeld  and  Leipzig 

PUSS  IN  BOOTS 


MORITZ    VON    SCHWIND 


PUSS  IN  BOOTS 


199 


MiJLLER.      That 's  certainly  true  I 

Leutjster.    He's  right  —  that  man. 

ScHLOss.     Bravo !    Bravo ! 

All.  Bravo!    Bravo!    {Thep  clap.) 

Playwr.  I  leave  you,  honored  sirs,  to  decide  now  whether 
my  attempt  is  to  be  rejected  entirely  — 
trembling,  I  withdraw,  and  the  play  will  be- 
gin. {He  bows  very  respectfully  and  goes  be- 
hind the  curtain.) 

All.  Bravo !    Bravo ! 

Voices  from  the  gallery.    Da  capo! 

[All  are  laughing.  The  music  begins  again; 
meanwhile  the  curtain  rises.] 


ACT  I 

Small  room  in  a  peasant's  cottage 

Lorenz,  Barthel,  Gottlieb.    The  tom-cat  Hinze,  is  lying 
on  a  bench  by  the  stove. 

LoRENz.  I  think  that  after  the  death  of  our  father,  our 
little  fortune  can  be  divided  easily.  You  know 
the  deceased  has  left  only  three  pieces  of 
property  —  a  horse,  an  ox,  and  that  cat  there. 
I,  as  the  eldest,  will  take  the  horse;  Barthel, 
second  after  me,  gets  the  ox,  and  so  the  cat 
is  naturally  left  for  our  youngest  brother. 

Leutner  (in  the  pit).  For  Heaven's  sake!  Did  any  one 
ever  see  such  an  exposition !  Just  see  how  far 
dramatic  art  has  degenerated ! 

Muller.      But  I  understand  everything  perfectly  well. 

Leutner.  That's  just  the  trouble,  you  should  give  the 
spectator  a  cunning  suggestion,  not  throw  the 
matter  right  into  his  teeth. 

MiJLLER.      But  now  you  know,  don't  you,  where  you  are? 

Leutner.  Yes,  but  you  certainly  mustn't  know  that  so 
quickly;  why,  the  very  best  part  of  the  fun 
consists  in  getting  at  it  little  by  little. 


200 


THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 


Barthel. 


Gottlieb. 

SCHLOSS. 
LORENZ. 

Gottlieb. 
Gottlieb 


MULLER. 


Fischer. 


I  think,  brother  Gottlieb,  you  will  also  be  satis- 
fied with  this  division ;  unfortunately  you  are 
the  youngest,  and  so  you  must  grant  us  some 
privileges. 

Yes,  to  be  sure. 

But  why  doesn  't  the  court  of  awards  interfere  in 
the  inheritance?    What  improbabilities! 

So  then  we're  going  now,  dear  Gottlieb;  fare- 
well, don't  let  time  hang  heavy  on  your  hands. 

Good-bye.  [Exit  the  brothers.] 

(alone).  They  are  going  away — and  I  am  alone. 
We  all  three  have  our  lodgings.  Lorenz,  of 
course,  can  till  the  ground  with  his  horse, 
Barthel  can  slaughter  and  pickle  his  ox  and 
live  on  it  a  while  —  but  what  am  I,  poor  un- 
fortunate, to  do  with  my  cat?  At  the  most, 
I  can  have  a  muff  for  the  winter  made  out  of 
his  fur,  but  I  think  he  is  even  shedding  it  now. 
There  he  lies  asleep  quite  comfortably  —  poor 
Hinze!  Soon  we  shall  have  to  part.  I  am 
sorry  I  brought  him  up,  I  know  him  as  I  know 
myself  —  but  he  will  have  to  believe  me,  I  can- 
not help  myself,  I  must  really  sell  him.  He 
looks  at  me  as  though  he  understood.  I  could 
almost  begin  to  cry. 

[He  walks  up  and  doivn,  lost  in  thought.] 

Well,  you  see  now,  don't  you,  that  it's  going  to 
be  a  touching  picture  of  family  life?  The- 
peasant  is  poor  and  without  money;  now,  in 
the  direst  need,  he  will  sell  his  faithful  pet  to 
some  susceptible  young  lady,  and  in  the  end 
that  will  be  the  foundation  of  his  good  fortune. 
Probably  it  is  an  imitation  of  Kotzebue's 
Parrot;  here  the  bird  is  replaced  by  a  cat  and 
the  play  runs  on  of  itself. 

Now  that  it's  working  out  this  way,  I  am  satis- 
fied too. 


PUSS  IN  BOOTS 


201 


HiNZE,  the  tom-cat  {rises,  stretches,  arches  his  hack,  yaivns, 
then  speaks).    My  dear   Gottlieb  —  I   really 
sympathize  with  you. 
Gottlieb  (astonished).    What,  puss,  you  are  speaking? 
The  Ceitics  {in  the  pit).    The  cat  is  talking?    "What  does 
that  mean,  pray! 

It's  impossible  for  me  to  get  the  proper  illusion 
here. 

Rather  than  let  myself  be  disappointed  like  this 
I  never  want  to  see  another  play  all  my  life. 

Why  should  I  not  be  able  to  speak,  Gottlieb? 

I  should  not  have  suspected  it ;  I  never  heard  a 
cat  speak  in  all  my  life. 

Because  we  do  not  join  in  every  conversation, 
you  think  we  're  nothing  but  dogs. 

I  think  your  only  business  is  to  catch  mice. 

If  we  had  not,  in  our  intercourse  with  human 
beings,  got  a  certain  contempt  for  speech,  we 
could  all  speak. 

Well,  I'll  own  that!  But  why  don't  you  give 
any  one  an  opportunity  to  discover  you? 

That's  to  avoid  responsibility,  for  if  once  the 
power  of  speech  were  inflicted  on  us  so-called 
animals,  there  wouldn't  be  any  joy  left  in  the 
world.  What  isn't  the  dog  compelled  to  do 
and  learn !  The  horse !  They  are  foolish  ani- 
mals to  show  their  intelligence,  they  must 
give  way  entirely  to  their  vanity;  we  cats  still 
continue  to  be  the  freest  race  because,  with  all 
our  skill,  we  can  act  so  clumsily  that  human 
beings  quite  give  up  the  idea  of  training  us. 

But  why  do  you  disclose  all  this  to  me  ? 

Because  you  are  a  good,  a  noble  man,  one  of  the 
few  who  take  no  delight  in  servility  and 
slavery;  see,  that  is  why  I  disclose  myself  to 
you  completely  and  fully. 


Fischer. 

MiJLLER. 
HiNZE. 

Gottlieb. 

HiNZE. 

Gottlieb. 

HiNZE. 


Gottlieb. 


HlNZE. 


Gottlieb 

HlNZE. 


202 


THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 


Gottlieb 

HiNZE. 


Gottlieb. 

HiNZE. 


Gottlieb. 


Fischer. 
Leutner. 

SCHLOSS. 

Hinze. 


Gottlieb. 
Hinze. 


{gives  him  his  hand) .    Good  friend ! 

Human  beings  labor  under  the  delusion  that  the 
only  remarkable  thing  about  us  is  that  in- 
stinctive purring  which  arises  from  a  certain 
feeling  of  comfort ;  for  that  reason  they  often 
stroke  us  awkwardly  and  then  we  usually  purr 
to  secure  ourselves  against  blows.  But  if  they 
knew  how  to  manage  us  in  the  right  way,  be- 
lieve me,  they  w^ould  accustom  our  good  nature 
to  everything,  and  Michel,  your  neighbor's 
tom-cat,  would  even  at  times  be  pleased  to 
jump  through  a  hoop  for  the  king. 

You're  right  in  that. 

I  love  you.  Master  Gottlieb,  very  much.  You 
have  never  stroked  me  the  wrong  way,  you 
have  let  me  sleep  when  I  felt  like  it,  you  have 
objected  whenever  your  brothers  wanted  to 
take  me  up,  to  go  with  me  into  the  dark,  and 
see  the  so-called  electrical  sparks  —  for  all 
this  I  now  want  to  show  my  gratitude. 

Noble-hearted  Hinze !  Ah,  how  unjustly  do  they 
speak  ill  of  you  and  scornfully,  doubting  your 
loyalt)'^  and  devotion!  My  eyes  are  being 
opened  —  how  my  knowledge  of  human  nature 
is  increasing  and  so  unexpectedly! 

Friends,  where  has  our  hope  for  a  picture  of 
family  life  gone  to? 

Why  it  is  almost  too  nonsensical. 

I  feel  as  though  I  were  in  a  dream. 

You  are  a  good  man.  Master  Gottlieb;  but,  do 
not  take  it  ill  of  me,  you  are  somewhat  narrow, 
confined  —  to  speak  out  freely,  not  one  of  the 
best  heads. 

Alas,  no! 

You  don't  know  now,  for  example,  what  you 
want  to  do. 


PUSS  IN  BOOTS 


203 


Gottlieb.   You  read  my  thoughts  perfectly. 

HiNZE.        If  you  had  a  muff  made  out  of  my  fur 

Gottlieb.  Do  not  take  it  amiss,  comrade,  that  this  idea 
just  passed  through  my  mind. 

HiNZE.  Why,  no,  it  was  an  altogether  human  thought. 
Can  you  think  of  no  way  of  managing? 

Gottlieb.   Not  a  thing! 

HiNZE.  You  might  carry  me  around  and  show  me  for 
money;  but  that  is  never  a  sure  means  of 
support. 

Gottlieb.   No. 

HiNZE.  You  might  publish  a  journal  or  a  German  paper, 
with  the  motto.  Homo  sum  —  or  a  novel;  I 
should  be  willing  to  collaborate  with  you  —  but 
that  is  too  much  bother. 

Gottlieb.   Yes. 

HiNZE.  AYell,  I  '11  see  that  I  take  even  better  care  of  you. 
Depend  upon  it,  you  are  yet  to  become  very 
happy  through  me. 

Gottlieb.  0,  best,  most  noble  man.  {He  embraces  Mm 
tenderly.) 

HiNZE.        But  you  must  also  trust  me. 

Gottlieb.  Entirely.  Why,  now  I  realize  your  honorable 
spirit. 

HiNZE.  Well,  then,  do  me  a  favor  and  bring  the  shoe- 
maker immediately  to  take  my  measure  for  a 
pair  of  boots. 

Gottlieb.   The  shoemaker?    Boots? 

HiNZE.  You  are  surprised,  but  in  accomplishing  what  I 
intend  to  do  for  you,  I  have  to  walk  and  run 
so  much  that  I  have  to  wear  boots. 

Gottlieb.    But  why  not  shoes? 

HiNZE.  Master  Gottlieb,  you  do  not  understand  the  mat- 
ter; they  must  lend  me  some  dignity,  an  im- 
posing air,  in  short,  a  certain  manliness  to 
which  one  never  attains  in  shoes. 


204 


THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 


Gottlieb.  Well,  as  you  think  best;  but  the  shoemaker  will 
be  surprised. 

HiNZE.  Not  at  all ;  we  must  act  only  as  if  it  were  nothing 
remarkable  that  I  should  wish  to  wear  boots ; 
one  gets  used  to  everything. 

Gottlieb.  Yes,  indeed ;  why,  my  conversation  with  you  has 
actually  become  quite  easy!  But  another 
thing;  now  that  we  have  become  such  good 
friends,  do  call  me  by  my  first  name,  too ;  why 
do  you  still  want  to  stand  on  ceremony  with 
me? 

HiNZE.        As  you  like,  Gottlieb. 

Gottlieb.  There's  the  shoemaker  passing.  Hey!  Pst! 
Friend  Leichdorn!  AVill  you  please  stop  a 
moment?  [The  shoemaker  comes  m.] 

Shoemak.  God  bless  you!    What's  the  news? 

Gottlieb.  I  have  ordered  no  work  from  you  for  a  long 
time. 

Shoemak.  No,  my  friend,  all  in  all,  I  have  very  little  to  do 
now. 

Gottlieb.  I  should  like  to  have  another  pair  of  boots 
made 

Shoemak.  Please  take  a  seat.    I  have  a  measure  with  me. 

Gottlieb.   Not  for  myself,  but  for  my  young  friend  there. 

Shoemak.  For  this  one  here  ?    Very  well. 

HiNZE  {sits  on  a  chair  and  holds  out  his  right  leg). 

Shoemak.  Now  how  should  you  like  it,  pussy? 

HiNZE.  In  the  first  place,  good  soles,  then  brown  flaps, 
and,  above  all  things,  stiff. 

Shoemak.  Very  well.  {He  takes  the  measure.)  Will  you 
be  so  kind  as  to  draw  your  claws  in  a  bit  —  or 
rather  nails  ?  I  have  already  scratched  myself. 
{He  takes  the  measure.) 

HiNZE.  And  they  must  be  finished  quickly.  {As  his  leg 
is  being  stroked  he  begins  to  purr  involun- 
tarily.) 

Shoemak.  The  pussy  is  comfortable. 


PUSS  IN  BOOTS  205 

Gottlieb.  Yes,  he's  a  good-humored  fellow.  He  has  just 
come  from  school,  what  they  usually  call  a 
' '  smarty. ' ' 

Shoemak.  Well,  good-bye.  [Exit.] 

Gottlieb.  Wouldn't  you  perhaps  like  to  have  your  whisk- 
ers trimmed  too? 

HiNZE.  On  no  account,  I  look  so  much  more  respectable, 
and  you  certainly  must  know  that  cats  imme- 
diately become  unmanly  after  that.  A  tom- 
cat without  whiskers  is  but  a  contemptible 
creature. 

Gottlieb.    If  I  only  knew  what  you  are  planning! 

HiNZE.  You  '11  find  out  in  due  time.  Now  I  want  to  take 
a  little  walk  on  the  roofs ;  there 's  a  fine,  open 
view  there  and  you're  likely  to  catch  a  dove 
too. 

Gottlieb.  As  a  good  friend,  I  want  to  warn  you  not  to  let 
yourself  be  caught  at  it. 

HiNZE.  Don't  worry,  I'm  not  a  novice.  Meanwhile, 
good-bye.  [Exit.] 

Gottlieb  (alone).  Natural  history  always  says  that  cats 
cannot  be  trusted  and  that  they  belong  to  the 
lion  family,  and  I  am  in  such  fearful  dread  of 
a  lion.  Now  if  the  cat  had  no  conscience,  he 
could  run  away  from  me  afterward  with  the 
boots  for  which  I  must  now  give  my  last  penny 
and  then  sell  them  somewhere  for  nothing,  or 
it's  possible  that  he  wants  to  make  a  bid  for 
favor  with  the  shoemaker  and  then  go  into 
his  service.  But  he  has  a  tom-cat  already. 
No,  Hinze,  my  brothers  have  betrayed  me,  and 
now  I  will  try  my  luck  with  you.  He  spoke  so 
nobly,  he  was  so  touched  —  there  he  sits  on  the 
roof  yonder,  stroking  his  whiskers  —  forgive 
me,  my  fine  friend,  that  I  could  even  for  a 
moment  doubt  your  magnanimity.         [Exit.] 

Fischer.    What  nonsense  I 


206 


THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 


MiJLLER.     What  does  the  cat  need  those  boots  for  ?  —  to  be 

able  to  walk  better?    Silly  stuff ! 
ScHLoss.     But  it  seems  as  though  I  saw  a  cat  before  me. 
Leutner.    Be  still,  the  scene  is  changing. 

Hall  in  the  royal  palace 
The  King  with  crown  and  sceptre.    The  Princess,  his 

daughter 

King.  A    thousand    handsome    princes,    my   precious 

daughter,  have  already  sued  for  your  hand 
and  laid  their  kingdoms  at  your  feet,  but  you 
have  continued  to  refuse  them.  Tell  us  the 
reason  for  this,  my  treasure. 

Princess.  My  most  gracious  father,  I  have  always  believed 
that  my  heart  must  first  feel  certain  emotions 
before  my  neck  would  bow  under  the  yoke  of 
marriage.  For  a  marriage  without  love,  they 
say,  is  truly  hell  upon  earth. 

King.  That  is  right,  my  dear  daughter.     Ah,  indeed, 

indeed,  have  you  spoken  words  of  truth :  a  hell 
on  earth !  Alas,  if  only  I  were  not  qualified  to 
discuss  it !  Indeed  I  should  have  preferred  to 
remain  ignorant !  But  as  it  is,  dear  treasure,  I 
have  my  tale  to  tell,  as  they  say.  Your  mother, 
my  consort  of  blessed  memory  —  ah,  Princess, 
see,  the  tears  rush  to  my  eyes  even  in  my  old 
age  —  she  was  a  good  queen,  she  wore  the 
crown  with  an  indescribable  air  of  majesty  — 
but  she  gave  me  very  little  peace.  Well,  may 
her  ashes  rest  in  peace  among  her  royal 
relatives. 

Princess.   Your  majesty  excites  yourself  too  much. 

King.  When  the  memory  of  it  returns  to  me,  0  my 

child,  on  my  knees  I  would  entreat  you  —  do 
be  careful  in  marrying!  It  is  a  great  truth 
that  linen  and  a  bridegroom  must  not  be 
bought  by  candle-light,  a  truth  which  should 


PUSS  IN  BOOTS 


207 


Princess 
King. 


Fischer. 

SCHLOSS. 
MULLER. 

Fischer. 

SCHLOSS. 


be  found  in  every  book.  What  did  I  suffer! 
No  day  passed  without  a  quarrel ;  I  could  not 
sleep  peacefully,  could  not  conduct  my  ad- 
ministrative business  quietly,  I  could  not  think 
of  anything,  could  not  read  a  book  —  I  was 
always  interrupted.  And  still  my  spirit  some- 
times yearns  for  you,  my  blessed  Klothildel 
My  eyes  smart  —  I  am  a  real  old  fool. 
{tenderly).     My  father! 

I  tremble  to  think  of  the  dangers  that  face  you, 
for,  even  if  you  do  fall  in  love  now,  my 
daughter,  ah!  you  should  just  see  what  thick 
books  wise  men  have  filled  on  this  sub- 
ject—  see,  your  very  passion,  then,  can  also 
make  you  miserable.  The  happiest,  the  most 
blissful  emotion  can  ruin  us ;  moreover,  love  is, 
as  it  were,  a  magic  cup ;  instead  of  nectar  we 
often  drink  poison ;  then  our  pillow  is  wet  with 
tears ;  all  hope,  all  consolation  are  gone.  {The 
sound  of  a  trumpet  is  heard.)  Why,  it  isn't 
dinner-time  yet,  is  it!  Probably  another  new 
prince  who  wants  to  fall  in  love  with  you. 
Take  care,  my  daughter;  you  are  my  only 
child,  and  you  do  not  realize  how  near  my 
heart  your  happiness  lies.  {He  kisses  her 
and  leaves  the  hall.  Applause  is  heard  in  the 
pit.) 

That's  a  scene  for  j'ou,  in  which  you  can  find 
sound  common  sense. 

I  am  also  moved. 

He's  an  excellent  sovereign. 

Now  he  didn't  exactly  have  to  appear  with  a 
crown. 


It  entirely  spoils  the  sympathy  one  feels  for  him 
as  an  affectionate  father. 
The  Princess  {alone).    1  do  not  understand  at  all;  why,  not 
one  of  the  princes  has  yet  touched  my  heart 


208 


THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 


Princess. 


Leander 


Princess 
Leander. 


with  love.  I  always  keep  in  mind  my  father's 
warnings;  he  is  a  great  sovereign  and  never- 
theless a  good  father  too,  and  is  always  think- 
ing of  my  happiness ;  if  only  he  did  not  have 
such  a  hasty  temper!  But  fortune  and  mis- 
fortune are  always  coupled  thus.  My  joy  I 
find  in  the  arts  and  sciences,  for  books  con- 
stitute all  my  happiness. 

The  Princess.     Leander,  the  court  scholar. 
Leander.    Well,  your  Royal  Highness!     {They  sit  down.) 
Here,  Master  Leander,  is  my  essay.    I  have  en- 
titled it  Thoughts  at  Night, 
(reads).    Excellent!    Inspired!    Ah!   I  feel   as 
though  I  hear  the  hour  of  midnight  striking. 
When  did  you  write  it  ? 
Yesterday  noon,  after  dinner. 
Beautifully  conceived!     Truly,  beautifully  con- 
ceived !    But  with  your  most  gracious  permis- 
sion!   The  moon  shines  sadly  down  in  the 
ivorld.    If  you  will  not  take  it  amiss,  it  should 
.  read :  into  the  world. 
Princess.   Very  well,  I  will  note  that  for  the  future;  it's 
too  stupid  that  poetry  should  be  made  so  hard 
for  us;  one  can't  write  five  or  six  lines  with- 
out making  a  mistake. 
That's  the  obstinacy  of  language,  so  to  speak. 
Are  not  the  emotions  tenderly  and  delicately 

phrased ! 
Indescribably!      It  is   scarcely  comprehensible 
how  a  feminine  mind  could  write  such  a  thing. 
Princess.    Now  I  might  try  my  hand  at  moonlight  descrip- 
tions.   Don't  you  think  so? 
Leander.    Naturally  you  keep  going  farther  all  the  time; 

you  keep  rising  higher. 
Princess.    I  have  also  begun  a  piece :    The  Unhappy  Mis- 
anthrope;    or,    Lost    Peace    and    Restored 
Innocence! 


Leander. 
Princess. 

Leander. 


PUSS  IN  BOOTS 


209 


Leander.    Even  the  title  itself  is  fascinating. 

Princess.  And  then  I  feel  an  incomprehensible  desire 
within  me  to  write  some  horrible  ghost  story. 
As  I  said  before,  if  it  were  not  for  those  gram- 
matical errors! 

Leander.  Do  not  worry  about  that,  incomparable  princess ! 
They  are  easily  corrected. 

[Groom  from  the  Chamber  enters.] 

Groom.  The  Prince  of  Malsinki,  who  has  just  arrived, 
wishes  to  wait  on  your  royal  highness. 

[Exit.] 

Leander.    Your  obedient  servant.  [Exit.] 

Prince  Nathaniel  of  Malsinki.     The  King 

King.  Here,  Prince,  is  my  daughter,  a  young,  simple 

creature,  as  you  see  her  before  you.  (Aside.) 
Be  polite,  my  daughter,  courteous;  he  is  an 
illustrious  prince  from  afar;  his  country  is  not 
even  on  my  map,  I  have  already  looked  it  up ; 
I  have  an  amazing  amount  of  respect  for  him. 

Princess.  I  am  glad  to  have  the  pleasure  of  making  your 
acquaintance. 

Nathan.  Beautiful  Princess,  the  report  of  your  beauty 
has  been  spread  so  widely  over  the  whole 
world  that  I  have  come  here  from  a  far  dis- 
tant corner  for  the  happiness  of  seeing  you 
face  to  face. 

King.  Indeed  it  is  astonishing,  how  many  countries  and 

kingdoms  there  are!  You  would  not  believe 
how  many  thousand  crown-princes  have  been 
here  already,  to  pay  their  addresses  to  my 
daughter;  sometimes  they  arrive  by  dozens, 
especially  when  the  weather  is  fine  —  and  now 
you  have  come  all  the  w^ay  from  —  I  beg  your 
pardon,  topography  is  such  a  very  extensive 
subject  —  in  what  region  does  your  country 
lief 
Vol.  IV  — 14 


210 


THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 


Nathan.  Mighty  king,  if  you  travel  from  here  first  down 
the  great  highway,  then  you  turn  to  the  right 
and  go  on;  but  when  you  reach  a  mountain, 
turn  to  the  left  again,  then  you  go  to  the  ocean 
and  sail  directly  north  (if  the  wind  is  favor- 
able, of  course),  and  so,  if  the  journey  is  suc- 
cessful, you  reach  my  dominions  in  a  year  and 
a  half. 

King.  The  deuce!  I  must  have  my  court  scholar  ex- 
plain that  to  me.  You  are  probably  a  neigh- 
bor of  the  North  Pole  or  Zodiac,  or  something 
like  that,  I  suppose! 

Nathan.     Not  that  I  know  of. 

King.  Perhaps  somewhere  near  the  savages? 

Nathan.     I  beg  your  pardon,  all  my  subjects  are  very  tame. 

King.  But  you  must  live  confoundedly  far  away.  I 
can't  get  a  clear  idea  of  it  yet. 

Nathan.  The  geography  of  my  country  is  still  not  exactly 
fixed;  I  expect  to  discover  more  every  day; 
and  then  it  may  easily  come  about  that  we 
shall  even  become  neighbors  in  the  end. 

King.  That  will  be  splendid !     And  if,  after  all,  a  few 

countries  still  stand  in  our  way,  I  will  help 
you  in  your  discoveries.  My  neighbor  is  not 
a  good  friend  of  mine,  so  to  speak,  and  he  has 
a  fine  country;  all  the  raisins  come  from 
there ;  w^iy,  I  should  be  only  too  glad  to  have 
it!  But  another  thing;  do  tell  me,  how,  living 
so  far  away,  can  you  speak  our  language  so 
fluently ! 

Nathan.     Hush ! 

King.         What? 

Nathan.     Hush!  hush! 

King.         I  do  not  understand. 

Nathaniel  {softly  to  him).  Do  be  quiet  about  it,  pray,  for 
otherwise  the  audience  down  there  will  surely 
notice  that  it  is  really  very  unnatural. 


PUSS  IN  BOOTS 


211 


King. 


Fischer. 

SCHLOSS. 


King.         It  doesn't  matter.    They  clapped  before  and  so  I 

can  afford  to  take  a  chance. 
Nathan.     You  see,  it  is  only  for  the  sake  of  the  drama 
that  I  speak  your  language ;  for  otherwise,  of 
course,  the  matter  is  incomprehensible. 
Ah,  so !     Well,  come,  Prince,  the  table  is  set ! 
[The   Prince   escorts   the  princess   out,   the 
King  precedes.] 
Cursed  improbabilities  there  are  in  this  play! 
And  the  king  doesn't  remain  at  all  true  to  his 
character. 
Leutner.    Why,  nothing  but  the  natural  should  ever  be  pre- 
sented on  the  stage !  The  prince  should  speak 
an  altogether  unknown  language  and  have  an 
interpreter    with    him;    the    princess    should 
make  grammatical  errors,  since  she  herself 
admits  that  she  writes  incorrectly. 
Of  course !     Of  course !     The  whole  thing  is  un- 
questionable   nonsense;    the    author    himself 
is   always  forgetting  what  he  has   said  the 
moment  before. 


MiJLLER. 


The  scene  is  laid  in  front  of  a  tavern 

LoRENZ,  KuNz,  Michel  are  sitting  on  a  bench.     The  Host 

LoRENz.  I  shall  have  to  be  going  again  soon !  I  still  have 
a  long  way  home. 

Host.  You  are  a  subject  of  the  king,  aren't  you? 

LoRENz.      Yes,  indeed;  what  do  you  call  your  good  ruler? 

Host.  He  is  just  called  Bugbear. 

LoRENz.  That  is  a  foolish  title.  Why,  has  he  no  other 
name? 

Host.  When  he  has  edicts  issued,  they  always  read: 

For  the  good  of  the  public,  the  Law  demands 
—  hence  I  believe  that  is  his  real  name.  All 
petitions,  too,  are  always  laid  before  the  Law. 
He  is  a  fearful  man. 


212  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

LoRENZ.  Still,  I  should  rather  be  under  a  king;  why,  a 
king  is  more  dignified.  They  say  the  Bugbear 
is  a  very  ungracious  master. 

Host.  He  is  not  especially  gracious,  that  is  true  of 

course,  but,  on  the  other  hand,  he  is  justice 
itself.  Cases  are  even  sent  to  him  from 
abroad  and  he  must  settle  them. 

LoRENZ.  They  say  wonderful  things  about  him ;  the  story 
goes  he  can  transform  himself  into  any  animal. 

Host.  It  is  true,  and  then  he  travels  around  incognito 

and  spies  out  the  sentiments  of  his  subjects; 
that 's  the  very  reason  why  we  trust  no  cat,  no 
strange  dog  or  horse,  because  we  always  think 
the  ruler  might  probably  be  inside  of  them. 

LoRENz.  Then  surely  we  are  in  a  better  position,  too.  Our 
king  never  goes  out  without  wearing  his 
crown,  his  cloak,  and  his  sceptre ;  by  these,  he 
is  known  three  hundred  paces  away.  Well, 
take  care  of  yourselves.  [Exit.] 

Host.  Now  he  is  already  in  his  own  country. 

KrNz.         Is  the  border  line  so  near? 

Host.  Surely,  that  very  tree  belongs  to  the  king;  you 

can  see  from  this  very  spot  everything  that 
goes  on  in  his  country;  this  border  line  here 
is  a  lucky  thing  for  me.  I  should  have  been 
bankrupt  long  ago  if  the  deserters  from  over 
there  had  not  supported  me ;  almost  every  day 
several  come. 

Michel.      Is  the  service  there  so  hard? 

Host.  Not  that ;  but  running  away  is  so  easy,  and  just 

because  it  is  so  strictly  forbidden  the  fellows 
get  such  an  exceptional  desire  to  desert.  Look, 
I  bet  that's  another  one  coming! 

[A  soldier  comes  running.] 

Soldier.     A  can  of  beer,  host !     Quick  I 

Host.  Who  are  you? 

Soldier.     A  deserter. 


PUSS  IN  BOOTS 


213 


Michel. 


Host. 


Soldier. 
2d  Huss 


Perhaps   'twas  his  love  for  his  parents  which 
made  him  desert.     Poor  fellow,  do  take  pity 
on  him,  host. 
Why  if  he  has  money,  there  won't  be  any  lack 
of  beer.     {Goes  into  the  house.) 

[Two  hussars  come  riding  and  dismount.] 
1st  Huss.  Well,  thank  God,  we've  got  so  far!    Your  health, 
neighbor ! 
This  is  the  border. 

Yes,  Heaven  be  thanked!     Didn't  we  have  to 
ride  for  the  sake  of  that  fellow?     Beer,  host! 
Host  (with  several  glasses).     Here,  gentlemen,  a  fine,  cool 

drink;  you  are  all  pretty  warm. 
1st  Huss.  Here,  you  rascal !     To  your  health ! 
Soldier.     Best  thanks,  I  will  meantime  hold  your  horses 

for  you. 
2d  Huss.    The  fellow  can  run!     It's  good  that  the  border 
is  never  so  very  far  away;  for  otherwise  it 
would  be  deucedly  hard  service. 
1st  Huss.  Well,  we  must  go  back,  I  suppose.     Good-bye, 
deserter!     Much  luck  on  your  way! 

[They  mount  and  ride  away.] 
Will  you  stay  here  1 
No,  I  am  going  away ;  why  I  must  enlist  with  the 

neighboring  duke. 
Say,  come  and  see  me  when  you  desert  again. 
Certainly.     Farewell ! 

[They  shake  hands.  Exeunt  soldier  and  guests, 
exit  host  into  the  house.    The  curtain  falls.  ] 
Interlude 
Why,  it 's  getting  wilder  and  wilder !    What  was 

the  purpose  of  the  last  scene,  I  wonder? 
Nothing  at  all,  it  is  entirely  superfluous;  only 
to  introduce  some  new  nonsense.     The  theme 
of  the  cat  is  now  lost  entirely  and  there  is  no 
fixed  point  of  view  at  all. 


Host. 
Soldier. 

Host. 
Soldier. 


Fischer. 


Leutner. 


214 


THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 


ScHLoss.     I  feel  exactly  as  though  I  were  intoxicated. 

MiJLLER.  I  say,  in  what  period  is  the  play  supposed  to  be 
taking  place?  The  hussars,  of  course,  are  a 
recent  invention. 

ScHLOSS.  We  simply  shouldn't  bear  it,  but  stamp  hard. 
Now  we  haven't  the  faintest  idea  of  what  the 
play  is  coming  to. 

Fischer.  And  no  love,  either !  Nothing  in  it  for  the  heart, 
for  the  imagination. 

Leutner.  As  soon  as  any  more  of  that  nonsense  occurs, 
for  my  part  at  least,  I  '11  begin  to  stamp. 

WiESENER  {to  his  neighbor).    I  like  the  play  now. 

Neighbor.  Very  fine,  indeed,  very  fine;  a  great  man,  the 
author ;  he  has  imitated  the  Magic  Flute  well. 

WiESENER.  I  liked  the  hussars  particularly  well ;  people  sel- 
dom take  the  risk  of  bringing  horses  on  the 
stage  —  and  why  not  ?  They  often  have  more 
sense  than  human  beings.  I  would  rather  see 
a  good  horse  than  many  a  human  being  in  the 
more  modern  plays. 

Neighbor.  The  Moors  in  Kotzebue  —  a  horse  is  after  all 
nothing  but  another  kind  of  Moor. 

WiESENER.  Do  you  not  know  to  what  regiment  the  hussars 
belonged  1 

Neighbor.  I  did  not  even  look  at  them  carefully.  Too  bad 
they  went  away  so  soon  —  indeed  I'd  rather 
like  to  see  a  whole  play  with  nothing  but  hus- 
sars.    I  like  the  cavalry  so  much. 

Leutner  (to  Botticher).      What  do  you  think  of  all  this! 

BoTTiCH.  Why,  I  simply  can't  get  the  excellent  acting  of 
the  man  who  plays  the  cat  out  of  my  head. 
What  a  study!  What  art!  What  observa- 
tion !     What  costuming ! 

ScHLoss.  That  is  true;  he  really  does  look  like  a  large 
tom-cat. 

BoTTicH.  And  just  notice  his  whole  mask,  as  I  would 
rather  call  his  costume,  for  since  he  has  so 


PUSS  IN  BOOTS 


215 


completely  disguised  his  natural  appearance, 
this  expression  is  far  more  fitting.  But  I  say, 
God  bless  the  ancients  when  blessing  is  due. 
You  probably  do  not  know  that  the  ancients 
acted  all  parts,  without  exception,  in  masks,  as 
you  will  find  in  Athenceus,  Pollux  and  others. 
It  is  hard,  you  see,  to  know  all  these  things 
so  accurately,  because  one  must  now  and  then 
look  up  those  books  oneself  to  find  them.  At 
the  same  time,  however,  one  then  has  the  ad- 
vantage of  being  able  to  quote  them.  There 
is  a  difficult  passage  in  Pausanias. 

Fischer.  You  were  going  to  be  kind  enough  to  speak  of 
the  cat. 

BoTTiCH.  Why,  yes ;  and  I  only  meant  to  say  all  the  pre- 
ceding by  the  way,  hence  I  beg  you  most  ear- 
nestly to  consider  it  as  a  note ;  and,  to  return 
to  the  cat,  have  you  noticed,  I  wonder,  that 
he  is  not  one  of  those  black  cats  ?  No,  on  the 
contrary,  he  is  almost  entirely  white  and  has 
only  a  few  black  spots;  that  expresses  his 
good-nature  excellently;  moreover,  the  theme 
of  the  whole  play,  all  the  emotions  to  which  it 
should  appeal,  are  suggested  in  this  very  fur. 

Leutner.    That  is  true. 

Fischer.    The  curtain  is  going  up  again ! 


ACT  II 

Room  in  a  peasant's  house 
Gottlieb,  Hinze.     Both  are  sitting  at  a  small  table  and 

eating 
Gottlieb.   Did  it  taste  good? 
Hinze.        Very  good,  very  fine. 
Gottlieb,    But  now  my  fate  must  soon  be  determined,  for 

otherwise  I  do  not  know  what  I  am  to  do. 
Hinze.        Just  have  patience  a  few  days  longer ;  why,  good 


216 


THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 


HiNZE. 


fortune  must  have  some  time  to  grow;  who 
would  expect  to  become  happy  all  of  a  sudden, 
so  to  speak  1  My  good  man,  that  happens  only 
in  books ;  in  the  world  of  reality  things  do  not 
move  so  quickly. 

Fischer.  Now  just  listen,  the  cat  dares  to  speak  of  the 
world  of  reality!  I  feel  almost  like  going 
home,  for  I'm  afraid  I  shall  go  mad. 

Leutner.  It  looks  almost  as  if  that  is  what  the  writer 
intended. 

Muller.  a  splendid  kind  of  artistic  enjoyment,  to  be 
mad,  I  must  admit ! 

Gottlieb.  If  I  only  knew,  dear  Hinze,  how  you  have  come 
by  this  amount  of  experience,  this  intelligence ! 
Are  you,  then,  under  the  impression  that  it  is 
in  vain  one  lies  for  days  at  the  stove  with 
one's  eyes  tight  shut?  I  always  kept  studying 
there  quietly.  In  secret  and  unobserved  does 
the  power  of  the  intelligence  grow;  hence  it 
is  a  sign  that  one  has  made  the  least  progress 
when  one  sometimes  has  a  mind  to  crane  one 's 
neck  around  as  far  as  possible,  so  as  to  look 
back  at  the  ground  one  has  already  covered. 
Now  do  be  kind  enough  to  untie  my  napkin. 

Gottlieb  {does  it).    A  blessing  on  good  food !     {They  kiss.) 
Content  yourself  with  that. 
I  thank  you  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart. 
The  boots  fit  very  nicely,  and  you  have  a  charm- 
ing little  foot. 
That  is  only  because  we  always  walk  on  our  toes, 
as  you  must  already  have  read  in  your  natural 
history. 
I  have  great  respect  for  you  —  on  account  of 
the  boots. 

Hinze  {hangs  a  soldier's  knapsack  about  his  neck).  I  am 
going  now.  See,  I  have  also  made  myself  a 
bag  with  a  drawing-string. 


Hinze. 
Gottlieb 

Hinze. 


Gottlieb. 


PUSS  IN  BOOTS  217 

Gottlieb.   What's  it  all  for? 

HiNZE.        Just  let  me  alone !    I  want  to  be  a  hunter.    Why, 

where  is  my  cane? 
Gottlieb.    Here. 

HiNZE.        Well,  then,  good-bye.  [Exit.] 

Gottlieb.   A  hunter?     I  can't  understand  the  man. 

[Exit.] 

Open  Field 
HiNZE  (with  cane,  knapsack,  and  bag).  Splendid  weather! 
It's  such  a  beautiful,  warm  day;  afterward  I 
must  lie  down  a  bit  in  the  sun.  {He  spreads 
out  his  hag.)  Well,  fortune,  stand  by  me. 
Of  course,  when  I  think  that  this  capricious 
goddess  of  fortune  so  seldom  favors  shrewdly 
laid  plans,  that  she  always  ends  up  by  dis- 
gracing the  intelligence  of  mortals,  I  feel  as 
though  I  should  lose  all  my  courage.  Yet,  be 
quiet,  my  heart ;  a  kingdom  is  certainly  worth 
the  trouble  of  working  and  sweating  some  for 
it!  If  only  there  are  no  dogs  around  here; 
I  can 't  bear  those  creatures  at  all ;  it  is  a  race 
that  I  despise  because  they  so  willingly  sub- 
mit to  the  lowest  servitude  to  human  beings. 
They  can't  do  anything  but  either  fawn  or 
bite;  they  haven't  fashionable  manners  at  all, 
a  thing  which  is  so  necessary  in  company. 
There's  no  game  to  be  caught.  {He  begins  to 
sing  a  hunting  song:  "I  steal  through  the 
ivoods  so  still  and  wild,"  etc.  A  nightingale 
in  the  bush  near-by  begins  to  sing.)  She  sings 
gloriously,  the  songstress  of  the  grove;  but 
how  delicious  she  must  taste !  The  great  peo- 
ple of  the  earth  are,  after  all,  right  lucky  in  the 
fact  that  they  can  eat  as  many  nightingales 
and  larks  as  they  like ;  we  poor  common  people 
must  content   ourselves   with   their   singing, 


218  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

with  the  beauty  in  nature,  with  the  incompre- 
hensibly sweet  harmony.  It 's  a  shame  I  can 't 
hear  anything  sing  without  getting  a  desire 
to  eat  it.  Nature!  Nature!  'Wliy  do  you 
always  destroy  my  finest  emotions  by  having 
created  me  thus?  I  feel  almost  like  taking 
off  my  boots  and  softly  climbing  up  that  tree 
yonder;  she  must  be  perching  there.  {Stamp- 
ing in  the  pit.)  The  nightingale  is  good- 
natured  not  to  let  herself  be  interrupted 
even  by  this  martial  music;  she  must  taste 
delicious ;  I  am  forgetting  all  about  my  hunt- 
ing with  these  sweet  dreams.  Truly,  there's 
no  game  to  be  caught.    Why,  who 's  there  ? 

[Ttvo  lovers  enter.] 

He.  I  say,  my  sweet  life,  do  you  hear  the  nightin- 

gale? 

She.  I  am  not  deaf,  my  good  friend. 

He.  How  my  heart  overflows  with  joyousness  when 

I  see  all  harmonious  nature  thus  gathered 
about  me,  when  every  tone  but  reechoes  the 
confession  of  my  love,  when  all  heaven  bows 
down  to  diffuse  its  ether  over  me. 

She.  You  are  raving,  my  dear ! 

He.  Do  not  call  the  most  natural  emotions  of  my 
heart  raving.  {He  kneels  down.)  See,  I 
swear  to  you,  here  in  the  presence  of  glad 
heaven 

Hinzb  (approaching  them  courteously).  Kindly  pardon 
me  —  would  you  not  take  the  trouble  to  go 
somewhere  else?  You  are  disturbing  a  hunt 
here  with  your  lovely  affection. 

He.  Be  the  sun  my  -s^^tness,  the  earth  —  and  what 

else?  Thou,  thyself,  dearer  to  me  than  earth, 
sun,  and  all  the  elements.  What  is  it,  good 
friend? 

Hinze.        The  hunt  —  I  beg  most  humbly. 


PUSS  IN  BOOTS  219 

He.  Barbarian,  who  are  you,  to  dare  to  interrupt  the 

oaths  of  love!  You  are  not  of  woman  born, 
you  belong  outside  humanity. 

HiNZE.        If  you  would  only  consider,  sir 

She.  Then  wait  just  a  second,  good  friend;  you  see, 

I'm  sure,  that  my  lover,  lost  in  the  intoxica- 
tion of  the  moment,  is  down  on  his  knees. 

He.  Dost  thou  believe  me  now? 

She.  Oh,  didn't  I  believe  you  even  before  you  spoke 

a  word?  (She  bends  down  to  him  affection- 
ately.) Dearest!  I  love  you!  Oh,  inex- 
pressibly ! 

Hb.  Am  I  mad?     Oh,  and  if  I  am  not,  why  do  I  not 

become  so  immediately  with  excess  of  joy, 
wretched,  despicable  creature  that  I  am?  I 
am  no  longer  on  the  earth;  look  at  me  well, 
dearest,  and  tell  me :  Am  I  not  perhaps  stand- 
ing in  the  sun  ? 

She.  You  are  in  my  arms,  and  they  shall  never  release 

you  either. 

He.  Oh,  come,  this  open  field  is  too  narrow  for  my 

emotions,  we  must  climb  the  highest  mountain, 
to  tell  all  nature  how  happy  we  are. 

[Exit  the  lovers,  quickly  and  full  of  delight. 
Loud  applause  and  hravos  in  the  pit.] 

Wiesener  (clapping).  The  lover  thoroughly  exhausted 
himself.  Oh,  my,  I  gave  myself  such  a  blow 
on  the  hand  that  it  swelled  right  up. 

Neighbor.  You  do  not  know  how  to  restrain  yourself  when 
you  are  glad. 

Wiesener.  Yes,  I  am  always  that  way. 

Fischer.     Ah!  —  that    was    certainly    something   for    the 

heart;  that  makes  one  feel  good  again! 
Leutner.    Really  beautiful  diction  in  that  scene ! 
MuLLER.     But  I  wonder  whether  it  is  essential  to  the 
whole? 


220 


THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 


SCHLOSS. 
HiNZE. 


Fischer. 

MiJLLER. 
ScHLOSS. 


Leutner. 


I  never  worry  about  the  whole ;  if  I  cry,  I  cry  — 

that's  enough;  that  was  a  divine  passage. 
Such  a  pair  of  lovers  is  good  for  something  in  the 
world  after  all;  they  have  fallen  plump  into 
the  poetical  again  down  there  and  the  stamp- 
ing has  ceased.  There 's  no  game  to  be  caught. 
{A  rabbit  creeps  into  the  bag;  he  rushes  over 
and  draws  the  strings  over  him.)  Look  here, 
good  friend !  A  kind  of  game  that  is  a  cousin 
of  mine,  so  to  speak;  yes,  that's  the  way  with 
the  world  nowadays,  relatives  against  rela- 
tives, brother  against  brother;  if  one  wants 
to  get  through  the  world  oneself,  one  must 
push  others  out  of  the  way.  {He  takes  the 
rabbit  out  of  the  bag  and  puts  it  into  the  knap- 
sack. )  Hold !  Hold !  —  truly  I  must  take  care 
not  to  devour  the  game  myself.  I  must  just 
tie  up  the  knapsack  quickly  only  to  be  able 
to  restrain  my  passion.  Fie!  for  shame, 
Hinze!  Is  it  not  the  duty  of  the  nobleman 
to  sacrifice  himself  and  his  desires  to  the  hap- 
piness of  his  brother  creatures?  That's  the 
reason  why  we  live,  and  whoever  cannot  do 
that  —  oh,  it  were  better  for  him  if  he  had 
never  been  born !  {He  is  on  the  point  of  with- 
drawing; violent  applause  and  shouting  of 
"  Encore;  "  he  has  to  repeat  the  last  beautiful 
passage,  then  he  bows  respectfidly  and  goes 
of  ivith  the  rabbit.) 

Oh,  what  a  noble  man! 

What  a  beautifully  human  state  of  mind ! 

One  can  still  be  benefited  by  things  like  this,  but 
when  I  see  such  nonsense  I  should,  like  to 
smash  it  with  a  single  blow. 

I  began  to  feel  quite  sad  too  —  the  nightingale  — 
the  lovers  —  the  last  tirade  —  why  the  play 
has  some  really  beautiful  passages  after  all! 


PUSS  IN  BOOTS  221 

Hall  in  the  palace 

Large  company.  The  King.  The  Princess.  Prince 
Nathaniel.      The   Cook    {in  gala  costume) 

King  {sitting  on  throne).  Over  here,  cook;  now  is  the 
time  to  speak  and  answer ;  I  want  to  examine 
the  matter  myself. 

Cook  {falls  on  his  knees).  May  it  please  your  majesty  to 
express  your  commands  for  your  highness 's 
most  faithful  servant? 

King.  One  cannot  expend  too  much  effort,  my  friends, 

in  keeping  a  king — on  whose  shoulders  lies 
the  well-being  of  a  whole  country  and  that  of 
innumerable  subjects  —  always  in  good  humor. 
For  if  he  falls  into  a  bad  humor,  he  very 
easily  becomes  a  tyrant,  a  monster;  for  good 
humor  encourages  cheerfulness,  and  cheerful- 
ness, according  to  the  observations  of  all  phi- 
losophers, makes  man  good;  whereas  melan- 
choly, on  the  other  hand,  is  to  be  considered 
a  vice  for  the  very  reason  that  it  encourages 
all  the  vices.  Whose  duty  is  it,  I  now  ask,  in 
whose  power  does  it  so  lie,  to  preserve  the 
good  spirits  of  the  monarch,  so  much  as  in  the 
hands  of  a  cook?  Are  not  rabbits  very  inno- 
cent animals?  My  favorite  dish — by  means 
of  these  animals  I  could  succeed  in  never 
becoming  tired  of  making  my  country  happy 
—  and  these  rabbits  he  lets  me  do  without! 
Sucking  pigs  and  sucking  pigs  daily.  Rascal, 
I  am  disgusted  with  this  at  last ! 

Cook.  Let  not  my  king  condemn  me  unheard.     Heaven 

is  my  witness,  that  I  took  all  pains  to  secure 
those  pretty  white  animals ;  I  even  wanted  to 
purchase  them  at  a  rather  high  price,  but 
there  are  absolutely  none  to  be  had.  If  it  were 
possible  to  get  possession  of  even  one  of  these 
rabbits,  do  you  think  you  would  be  allowed 


222  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

to  doubt  for  one  moment  longer  the  love  your 
subjects  bear  you? 

King.  Stop  with  those  roguish  words,  betake  yourself 

to  the  kitchen  and  show  by  your  action  that 
you  love  your  king.  (Exit  cook.)  Now  I  turn 
to  you,  my  prince,  and  to  you  my  daughter. 
I  have  been  informed,  worthy  prince,  that  my 
daughter  does  not  love  you ;  she  is  a  thought- 
less, silly  girl,  but  I  still  give  her  credit  for 
so  much  common  sense  as  probably  to  have 
several  reasons.  She  causes  me  care  and  sad- 
ness, grief  and  worry,  and  my  old  eyes  are 
flooded  with  tears  when  I  think  of  how  she 
will  get  along  after  my  death.  ' '  You  will  be 
left  an  old  maid, ' '  I  have  told  her  a  thousand 
times ;  '  *  take  your  chance  while  it  is  offered 
you;"  but  she  will  not  hear;  well,  then  she'll 
have  to  be  made  to  feel. 

Princess.    My  father 

King  {weeping  and  sobbing).  Go,  ungrateful,  disobedient 
girl  —  by  your  refusal  you  are  drawing  me 
into  —  alas,  only  too  early  a  grave!  {He  sup- 
ports himself  on  the  throne,  covers  his  face 
with  his  cloak  and  weeps  bitterly.) 

Fischer.  Why,  the  king  does  not  remain  true  to  his  char- 
acter for  a  moment. 

[Groom  of  the  Chamber  comes  in.] 

Groom.  Your  majesty,  a  strange  man  is  outside  and  begs 
to  be  admitted  before  your  majesty. 

King  {sobbing).     Who  is  it? 

Groom.  I  beg  pardon,  my  king,  for  not  being  able  to 
answer  this  question.  Judging  by  his  long 
white  beard,  one  should  say  he  is  an  old  man, 
and  his  face  completely  covered  with  hair 
should  almost  confirm  one  in  this  opinion,  but 
then  again  he  has  such  bright,  youthful  eyes, 
such  a  smooth,  flexible  back,  that  one  cannot 


PUSS  IN  BOOTS  223 

understand  him.  He  appears  to  be  a  wealthy 
man;  for  he  is  wearing  a  pair  of  fine  boots 
and  as  far  as  I  can  infer  from  his  exterior  he 
seems  to  be  a  hunter. 

King.  Bring  him  in ;  I  am  curious  to  see  him. 

[Groom  goes  and  returns  directly  with  Hinze.] 

HiNZE.  With  your  majesty's  most  gracious  permission 
the  Count  of  Carabas  makes  bold  to  present 
you  with  a  rabbit. 

King  (delighted).  A  rabbit?  Do  you  hear  it,  really,  peo- 
ple 1  Ah,  fate  has  become  reconciled  with  me 
again!    A  rabbit? 

Hinze  (takes  it  out  of  his  knapsack).    Here,  great  monarch ! 

King.  Here  —  just  hold  the  sceptre  a  moment,  prince. 
(He  feels  the  rabbit.)  Fat!  nice  and  fat! 
From  the  Count  of 

Hinze.        Carabas. 

King.  Indeed,  he  must  be  an  excellent  man.     I  must 

become  better  acquainted  with  him.  Who  is 
the  man?  Which  of  you  knows  him?  Why 
does  he  keep  himself  concealed  ?  If  such  heads 
as  that  are  allowed  to  remain  idle,  what  will 
become  of  our  throne!  I  would  cry  for  joy. 
Sends  me  a  rabbit!  Groom,  give  it  to  the  cook 
directly.  [Groom  takes  it.    Exit.] 

Nathan.  My  king,  I  beg  most  humbly  to  make  my  de- 
parture. 

King.  Why,  indeed !  I  had  almost  forgotten  that  in  my 

joy!  Farewell,  prince,  yes,  you  must  make 
room  for  other  suitors ;  it  cannot  be  otherwise. 
Adieu!  I  wish  you  had  a  highroad  all  the 
way  home. 

[Prince  kisses  his  hand.    Exit.] 

King  (shouting).     People!     Let  my  historian  come! 

[The  historian  appears.] 

King.  Here,  friend,  come,  here 's  some  material  for  our 


224 


THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 


history  of  the  world.  You  have  your  book 
with  you,  of  course ! 

Historian.  Yes,  my  king. 

King.  Now  enter  immediately,  that  on  such  and  such 

a  day  (whatever  date  we  happen  to  have  to- 
day) the  Count  of  Carabas  sent  me  a  present 
of  a  most  delicious  rabbit. 

[HisTOEiAX  seats  himself  and  writes.] 

King.  Do  not  forget,  Anno  currentis.    I  must  think  of 

everything,  otherwise  it's  always  sure  to  be 
done  wrong.  {Blast  of  a  trumpet  is  heard.) 
Ah,  dinner  is  ready  —  come,  my  daughter,  do 
not  weep;  if  it  isn't  one  prince,  it  will  be 
another.  Hunter,  we  thank  you  for  your 
trouble.  Will  you  accompany  us  to  the  dining- 
room?     {They  go,  Hinze  follows.) 

Leutner.  Pretty  soon  I  shall  not  be  able  to  stand  it  any 
longer ;  wlw,  what  has  happened  to  the  father 
now,  who  was  so  tender  to  his  daughter  at 
first  and  touched  us  all  so  1 

Fischer.  The  only  thing  that  vexes  me  is  that  not  a  per- 
son in  the  play  wonders  at  the  cat;  the  king 
and  all  act  as  though  it  had  to  be  so. 

ScHLoss.     My  head  is  all  dizzy  with  this  queer  stuff. 
Royal  dining-room 

Large  table  set.  Sound  of  drums  and  trumpets.  Enter  the 
KixG,  the  Princess,  Leander,  Hinze,  several  distin- 
guished guests  and  Jackpudding,  Servants,  waiting  at 
the  table. 

King.  Let  us  sit  down,  otherwise  the  soup  will  get  cold ! 

Plas  the  hunter  been  taken  care  of? 

Servant.  Yes,  your  majesty,  he  will  eat  at  the  little  table 
here  with  the  court  fool. 

Jackpudding  {to  Hinze).  Let  us  sit  down,  otherwise  the 
soup  will  get  cold. 

Hinze  {sits  down).    With  whom  have  I  the  honor  of  dining? 

Jackpud.    a  man  is  what  he  is.  Sir  Hunter;  we  cannot  all 


PUSS  IN  BOOTS 


225 


do  the  same  thing.  I  am  a  poor,  exiled  fugi- 
tive, a  man  who  was  once,  a  long  time  ago, 
witty,  but  who  has  now  become  stupid  and  re- 
entered service  in  a  foreign  land  where  he  is 
again  considered  witty  for  a  while. 

HiNZE.        From  what  country  do  you  come? 

Jackpud.  Unfortunately,  only  Germany.  My  countrymen 
became  so  wise  about  a  certain  time  that  they 
finally  forbade  all  jokes  on  pain  of  punish- 
ment; wherever  I  was  seen,  I  was  called  by 
unbearable  nicknames,  such  as:  Absurd,  in- 
decent, bizarre  —  whoever  laughed  at  me  was 
persecuted  like  myself,  and  so  I  was  compelled 
to  go  into  exile. 

HiNZE.        Poor  man ! 

Jackpud.  There  are  strange  trades  in  the  world.  Sir 
Hunter;  cooks  live  by  eating,  tailors  by  vanity, 
I,  by  the  laughter  of  human  beings;  if  they 
cease  to  laugh  I  must  starve. 

[Murmuring  in  the  pit:    A  Jachpudding! 
A  Jackpudding!] 

HiNZE.        I  do  not  eat  that  vegetable. 

Jackpud.    Why?     Don't  be  bashful,  help  yourself. 

HiNZE.        I  tell  you,  w^hite  cabbage  does  not  agree  with  me. 

Jackpud.  It  will  taste  all  the  better  to  me.  Give  me  your 
hand !  I  must  become  better  acquainted  with 
you.  Sir  Hunter. 

HiNZE.        Here ! 

Jackpud.  Take  here  the  hand  of  an  honest  German  fellow ; 
I  am  not  ashamed  of  being  German,  as  many 
of  my  countrymen  are.  {He  presses  the  cat's 
hand  very  tightly.) 

HiNZE.  Ow!  Ow!  {He  resists,  growls,  clutches  Jack- 
pudding.) 

Jackpud.  Oh!  Hunter!  Are  you  possessed  of  the  devil? 
{He  rises  and  goes  to  the  king  weeping.) 
Your  majesty,  the  hunter  is  a  perfidious  man; 

Vol.  IV— 15 


226 


THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 


just  look  at  the  remembrance  of  his  five 
fingers  he  has  left  on  me. 

King  (eating ) .  Strange !  Now  sit  down  again ;  wear  gloves 
in  the  future  when  you  give  him  jour  hand. 

Jackpud.    One  must  gniard  against  you. 

HiNZE.  Why  did  you  take  such  a  hold  on  me  ?  The  deuce 
take  your  pretended  honesty ! 

Jackpud.    Why,  you  scratch  like  a  cat ! 

[HiNZE  laughs  maliciously.] 

King.  But  what's  the  trouble  today,  anyhow?     Why 

is  there  no  intelligent  conversation  carried  on 
at  the  table?  I  do  not  enjoy  a  bite  unless 
my  mind  has  some  nourishment  too.  Court 
scholar,  did  you  perhaps  fall  on  your  head 
today? 

Leander  (eating).    May  it  please  your  majesty 

King.  How  far  is  the  sun  from  the  earth? 

Leander.  Two  million  four  hundred  thousand  and  seventy- 
one-miles. 

King.  And  the  circle  in  which  the  planets  revolve? 

Leander.    A  hundred  thousand  million  miles. 

King.  A  hundred  thousand  million!     There's  nothing 

in  the  world  I  like  better  to  hear  than  such 
great  numbers  —  millions,  trillions  —  that 
gives  you  something  to  think  about.  It's  a 
good  deal,  isn't  it,  a  thousand  million,  more 
or  less? 

Leander.    Human  intelligence  grows  with  the  numbers. 

King.  But  tell  me,  about  how  large  is  the  whole  world 

in  general,  counting  fixed  stars,  milky  ways, 
hoods  of  mist,  and  all  that? 

Leander.    That  cannot  be  expressed  at  all. 

King.  But  you  are  to  express  it  or  (threatening  with 
his  sceptre) 

Leander.  If  we  consider  a  million  as  one,  then  about  ten 
hundred  thousand  trillions  of  such  units  which 
of  themselves  amount  to  a  million. 


PUSS  IN  BOOTS 


227 


Jackpud. 

King. 
Jackpud. 


King.  Just  think,  children,  think !     Would  you  believe 

this  bit  of  world  could  be  so  great !     But  how 
that  occupies  the  mind! 

Your  majesty,  this  bowl  of  rice  here  seems  to  me 
sublimer. 

How's  that,  fool? 

Such  sublimities  of  numbers  give  no  food  for 
thought;  one  cannot  think,  for  of  course  the 
highest  number  always  finally  becomes  the 
smallest  again.  Why,  you  just  have  to  think 
of  all  the  numbers  possible.  I  can  never  count 
beyond  five  here. 

But  say,  there's  some  truth  in  that.  Scholar, 
how  many  numbers  are  there,  anyhow? 

An  infinite  number. 

Just  tell  me  quickly  the  highest  number. 

There  is  no  highest,  because  you  can  always  add 
something  to  the  highest;  human  intelligence 
knows  no  bounds  in  this  respect. 

But  in  truth  it  is  a  remarkable  thing,  this  human 
mind. 

You  must  get  disgusted  with  being  a  fool  here. 

You  can  introduce  nothing  new;  there  are  too 
many  working  at  the  trade. 

The  fool,  my  king,  can  never  understand  such  a 
thing;  on  the  whole  I  am  surprised  that  your 
majesty  is  still  anmsed  by  his  insipid  ideas. 
Even  in  Germany  they  tired  of  him,  and  here 
in  Utopia  you  have  taken  him  up  where  thou- 
sands of  the  most  wonderful  and  clever 
amusements  are  at  our  service.  He  should  be 
thrown  out  at  once,  for  he  only  brings  your 
taste  into  bad  repute. 
King  (throws  the  sceptre  at  his  head).  Sir  Brazenbold  of 
a  scholar!  What  do  you  dare  to  say?  The 
fool  pleases  me,  me,  his  king,  and  if  I  like  him, 
how  dare  you  say  that  the  man  is  ridiculous? 


King. 

Leander 

King. 

Leander 


King. 

HiNZE. 

Jackpud. 
Leander. 


228  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

You  are  the  court  scholar  and  he  the  court 
fool;  you  both  have  equal  positions;  the  only- 
difference  is  that  he  is  dining  at  the  little  table 
with  the  strange  hunter.  The  fool  displays 
his  nonsense  at  the  table,  and  you  carry  on  an 
intelligent  conversation  at  the  table;  both  are 
only  to  while  away  the  time  for  me  and  make 
my  meal  taste  good :  where,  then,  lies  the  great 
difference?  Furthermore,  it  does  us  good  to 
see  a  fool  who  is  more  stupid  than  we,  who  has 
not  the  same  gifts;  why,  then,  one  feels 
greater  oneself  and  is  grateful  to  heaven; 
even  on  that  account  I  like  to  have  a  blockhead 
around. 

[The  Cook  serves  the  rabbit  and  goes.] 

King.  The  rabbit !  I  do  not  know  —  I  suppose  the  other 

gentlemen  do  not  care  for  it? 

All  (bow). 

King.  Well,  then,  with  your  permission,  I  will  keep  it 

for  myself.     {He  eats.) 

Princess.  It  seems  to  me  the  king  is  making  faces  as 
though  he  were  getting  an  attack  again. 

Kjng  {rising  in  rage).  The  rabbit  is  burned!  Oh,  earth! 
Oh,  pain!  What  keeps  me  from  sending  the 
cook  right  down  to  Orcus  as  fast  as  possible? 

Princess.    My  father! 

King.  How  did  this  stranger  lose  his  way  among  the 
people?    His  eyes  are  dry 

All  {arise  very  sadly,  Jackpudding  runs  back  and  forth 
busily,  Hinze  remains  seated  and  eats 
steadily). 

King.  A  long,  long,  good  night;  no  morning  will  ever 

brighten  it. 

Princess.   Do  have  some  one  fetch  the  peacemaker. 

King.  May  the  Cook  Philip  be  Hell's  cry  of  jubilee 

when  an  ungrateful  wretch  is  burned  to  ashes ! 

Princess.   Where  can  the  musician  be ! 


PUSS  IN  BOOTS  229 

King.  To  be  or  not  to  be 

[The  peacemaker  enters  with  a  set  of  musi- 
cal bells  and  begins  to  play  them  at  once.] 
King.  What  is  the  matter  with  me ?   {Weeping.)  Alas! 

I  have  already  had  my  attack  again.    Have  the 
rabbit  taken  out  of  my  sight,     {He  lags  his 
head  on  the  table,  full  of  grief,  and  sobs.) 
Courtier.  His  majesty  suffers  much. 

[Violent  stamping  and  whistling  in  the 
pit;  they  cough,  they  hiss;  those  in  the 
gallery  laugh;  the  king  gets  up,  arranges 
his  cloak  and  sits  doivn  majestically  with 
his  sceptre.  It  is  all  in  vain;  the  noise 
continues  to  increase,  all  the  actors  for- 
get their  parts,  a  terrible  pause  on  the 
stage.  Hinze  has  climbed  up  a  pillar. 
The  author  appears  on  the  stage,  over- 
come.] 
Author.     Gentlemen  —  most  honorable  public  —  just  a  few 

words ! 
In  the  pit.  Quiet !  Quiet !  The  fool  wishes  to  speak ! 
Author.     For  the  sake  of  heaven,  do  not  disgrace  me  thus ; 
why,  the  act  will  be  over  directly.    Just  look, 
the  king,  too,  is  again  calmed ;  take  an  example 
from  this  great  soul  which  certainly  has  more 
reason  to  be  vexed  than  you. 
Fischer.     More  than  we? 

WiESENER  {to  his  neighbor).  But  I  wonder  why  you  are 
stamping?  We  two  like  the  play,  do  we  not? 
Neighbor.  That's  true  too  —  absent-mindedly,  because 
they're  all  doing  it.  {Claps  with  might  and 
main. ) 
Author.  A  few  voices  are  still  favorable  to  me,  however. 
For  pity,  do  put  up  with  my  poor  play;  a 
rogue  gives  more  than  he  has,  and  it  will  be 
over  soon,  too.    I  am  so  confused  and  fright- 


230  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

ened  that  I  can  think  of  nothing  else  to  say 
to  you. 
All.  We  want  to  hear  nothing,  know  nothing. 

Author   {raging,  drags  the  peacemaker  forward).     The 
king  is  calmed,  now  calm  this  raging  flood  too, 
if  you  can.     {Beside  himself,  rushes  off.) 
[The   peacemaker  plays   on  his   bells,  the 
stamping   keeps   time  ivith  the  melody; 
he  motions;  monkeys  and  hears  appear 
and  dance  fondly  around  him.  Eagles  and 
other  birds.    An  eagle  sits  on  the  head  of 
HiNZE   who   is   very   much   afraid;    two 
elephants,  tivo  lions.   Ballet  and  singing.] 
The  four-footed  animals.    That  sounds  so  beautiful ! 
The  birds.    That  sounds  so  lovely ! 
Chorus  together.    Never  have  I  seen  or  heard  the  like ! 

[Hereupon  an  artistic  quadrille  is  danced 
by  all  present,  the  king  and  his  court 
retinue  are  taken  into  the  centre,  Hinze 
and  Jackpudding  not  excluded;  general 
applause.    Laughter;  people  standing  up 
in  pit  to  see  better;  several  hats  fall  down 
from  the  gallery.] 
The  Peacemaker   {sings  during  the  ballet  and  the  audi- 
ence's general  expression  of  pleasure). 
Could  only  all  good  men 
Soft  bells  like  these  discover 
Each  enemy  would  then 
With  ease  be  turned  to  lover. 
And  life  without  bad  friends  would  be 
All  sweet  and  lovely  harmony. 
[The  curtain  falls,  all  shout  and  applaud, 
the  ballet  is  heard  awhile.] 
Interlude 
Wiesener.  Splendid !    Splendid ! 

Neighbor.  Well,  I'd  certainly  call  that  a  heroic  ballet. 
Wiesener.  And  so  beautifully  woven  into  the  main  plot ! 


PUSS  IN  BOOTS 


231 


Leutner 
Fischer. 

SCHLOSS. 
BOTTICH. 


MiJLLER. 

Fischer 

BOTTICH. 


MiJLLER. 
BOTTICH, 


Fischer. 

BOTTICH, 


,    Beautiful  music ! 

Divine ! 

The  ballet  is  the  only  redeeming  feature  of  the 
play. 

I  still  keep  on  admiring  the  acting  of  the  cat.  In 
such  details  one  recognizes  the  great  and  ex- 
perienced actor;  for  example,  as  often  as  he 
took  the  rabbit  out  of  the  sack,  he  always 
lifted  it  by  the  ears ;  that  was  not  prescribed 
for  him;  I  wonder  whether  you  noticed  how 
the  king  grasped  it  at  once  by  the  body  ?  But 
these  animals  are  held  by  the  ears  because 
that  is  where  they  can  best  bear  it.  That's 
what  I  call  a  master! 

That  is  a  very  fine  explanation. 
(aside).    He  himself  ought  to  be  lifted  by  the  ears 
for  it. 

And  his  terror  when  the  eagle  was  sitting  on  his 
head!  How  he  did  not  even  move  for  fear, 
did  not  stir  or  budge  —  it  is  beyond  de- 
scription ! 

You  go  very  deeply  into  the  matter. 

I  flatter  myself  I  am  a  bit  of  a  connoisseur ;  that 
is  of  course  not  the  case  with  all  of  you,  and 
for  that  reason  the  matter  must  be  demon- 
strated to  you. 

You  are  taking  great  pains ! 

Oh,  when  you  love  art  as  I  do  it  is  a  pleasant 
task!  Just  now  a  very  acute  thought  also 
occurred  to  me  concerning  the  cat 's  boots,  and 
in  them  I  admire  the  genius  of  the  actor.  You 
see,  at  first  he  is  a  cat ;  for  that  reason  he  must 
lay  aside  his  natural  clothing  in  order  to  as- 
sume the  appropriate  disguise  of  a  cat.  Then  he 
has  to  appear  fully  as  a  hunter ;  that  is  what  I 
conclude,  for  every  one  calls  him  that,  nor  does 
a  soul  marvel  at  him;  an  unskilful  actor  would 


232 


THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 


FiSCHEB. 


have  dressed  himself  exactly  so  too,  but  what 
would  have  happened  to  our  illusion?  We 
might  perhaps  have  forgotten  that  he  was  still 
originally  a  cat  and  how  uncomfortable  a  new 
costume  would  be  for  the  actor  over  the  fur  he 
already  had.  By  means  of  the  boots,  however, 
he  merely  skilfully  suggests  the  hunter's  cos- 
tume ;  and  that  such  suggestions  are  extremely 
dramatic,  the  ancients  prove  to  us  very  ex- 
cellently, in  often 

Hush!    The  third  act  is  beginning. 


ACT  III 

Room  in  a  peasant's  house 

The  Playwright.    The  Machinist. 

Machin.     Then  do  you  really  think  that  will  do  any  good? 

Playwk.  I  beg,  I  entreat  you,  do  not  refuse  my  request; 
my  only  hope  depends  on  it. 

Leutner.  Why,  what's  this  again?  How  did  these  people 
ever  get  into  Gottlieb 's  room  ? 

ScHLoss.     I  won't  rack  my  brains  about  anything  more. 

Machin.  But,  dear  friend,  you  certainly  do  ask  too  much, 
to  have  all  this  done  in  such  a  hurry,  entirely 
on  the  spur  of  the  moment. 

Playwr.  I  believe  you  are  against  me,  too;  you  also  re- 
joice in  my  misfortune. 

Machin.     Not  in  the  least. 

Playwright  {falls  down  before  him).  Then  prove  it  to  me 
by  yielding  to  my  request;  if  the  disapproval 
of  the  audience  breaks  out  so  loudly  again, 
then  at  a  motion  from  me  let  all  the  machines 
play;  as  it  is,  the  second  act  has  already 
closed  quite  differently  from  the  way  it  reads 
in  my  manuscript. 

Machin.     "WTiat's  this  now?    Why,  who  raised  the  curtain ? 

Playwr.  It  never  rains  but  it  pours!  I  am  lost!  (He 
rushes  in  embarrassment  behind  the  scenes.) 


PUSS  IN  BOOTS 


233 


Machin.  There  never  has  been  such  a  confusion  on  any 
evening.  [Exit.    A  pause.] 

WiESENEK.  I  say,  does  that  belong  to  the  play  ? 

Neighbor.  Of  course  —  why  that  motivates  the  transforma- 
tion to  follow. 

Fischer.  This  evening  ought  certainly  to  be  described  in 
the  theatre  almanac. 

King  {behind  the  scenes).  No,  I  will  not  appear,  on  no  con- 
dition; I  cannot  bear  to  have  any  one  laugh 
at  me. 

Playwe.  But  you  —  dearest  friend  —  it  can't  be  changed 
now. 

Jackpud.  Well,  I  will  try  my  luck.  {He  steps  forward  and 
bows  comically  to  the  audience.) 

MuLLER.  Why,  what  is  Jackpudding  doing  in  the  peas- 
ant's room  now? 

ScHLOss.  I  suppose  he  wants  to  deliver  a  ridiculous 
monologue. 

Jackpud.  Pardon  me  if  I  make  bold  to  say  a  few  words 
which  do  not  exactly  belong  to  the  play. 

Fischer.  Oh,  you  should  keep  perfectly  quiet,  we  're  tired 
of  you  even  in  the  play;  moreover,  now  so 
very 

ScHLoss.     A  Jackpudding  dares  to  talk  to  us  ? 

Jackpud.  Why  not?  For  if  people  laugh  at  me,  I  am  not 
hurt  at  all ;  why,  it  would  be  my  warmest  wish 
to  have  you  laugh  at  me.    So  do  not  hesitate. 

Leutner.    That  is  pretty  funny! 

Jackpud.  Naturally,  what  scarcely  befits  the  king  is  all  the 
more  fitting  for  me;  hence  he  would  not  ap- 
pear, but  left  this  important  announcement  to 
me. 

MuLLER.      But  we  do  not  wish  to  hear  anything. 

Jackpud.    My  dear  German  countrymen 

ScHLoss,     I  believe  the  setting  of  the  play  is  in  Asia. 

Jackpud.  But  now,  you  see,  I  am  talking  to  you  merely  as 
an  actor  to  the  spectators. 


234 


THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 


ScHLoss.    People,  it's  all  over  with  me  now;  I  am  crazy. 

Jackpud.  Do  be  pleased  to  hear  that  the  former  scene, 
which  you  just  saw,  is  not  part  of  the  play  at 
all. 

Fischer.  Not  part  of  the  play?  Then  how  does  it  get  in 
there? 

Jackpud.  The  curtain  was  raised  too  soon.  It  was  a  pri- 
vate discussion  which  would  not  have  taken 
place  on  the  stage  at  all  if  it  were  not  so  hor- 
ribly crowded  behind  the  scenes.  Now  if  you 
were  deceived,  it  is  of  course  so  much  the 
worse;  then  just  be  kind  enough  to  eradicate 
this  delusion  again ;  for  from  now  on,  do  you 
understand  me,  only  after  I  have  gone  away, 
will  the  act  really  begin.  Between  you  and 
me,  all  the  preceding  has  nothing  to  do  with 
it  at  all.  But  you  are  to  be  compensated; 
much  is  coming  soon  which  is  very  essential 
to  the  plot.  I  have  spoken  to  the  playwright 
myself  and  he  has  assured  me  of  it. 

Fischer.     Yes,  your  playwright  is  just  the  fellow. 

Jackpud.  He's  good  for  nothing,  isn't  it  so?  Well,  I  am 
glad  after  all,  that  there  is  still  some  one  else 
who  has  the  same  taste  as  I 

The  Pit.    All  of  us,  all  of  us ! 

Jackpud.  Your  obedient  servant;  it  is  too  great  an  honor 
by  far.  Yes,  God  knows,  he  is  a  wretched 
writer  —  only  to  give  a  bad  example;  what  a 
miserable  part  he  has  given  me !  Where,  pray, 
am  I  witty  and  funny?  I  appear  in  so  few 
scenes,  and  I  believe,  if  I  hadn't  stepped  for- 
ward even  now,  by  a  lucky  chance,  I  should  not 
have  appeared  again  at  all. 

Playwright  {rushing  forward).    Impudent  fellow 

Jackpud.  Look,  he  is  even  jealous  of  the  small  part  I  am 
playing  now. 

Playwright  {on  the  other  side  of  the  stage  with  a  bow). 


PUSS  IN  BOOTS 


235 


Playwe. 

Jackpud. 
Playwr. 

Jackpud. 


Worthy  friends!    I  never  should  have  dared 
to  give  this  man  a  more  important  part  since 

I  know  your  taste 

Jackpudding  (on  the  other  side).  Your  taste?  Now  you 
see  his  jealousy  —  and  they  have  all  .just  de- 
clared that  my  taste  is  the  same  as  theirs. 
Pi^YWR.  I  wished,  by  means  of  the  present  play,  only  to 
prepare  you  for  even  more  extravagant  prod- 
ucts of  the  imagination. 
All  in  the  pit.     How?    What? 

Jackpud.    Of  course  for  plays  in  which  I  would  have  no 
part  to  act  at  all. 
For  the  development  of  this  matter  must  ad- 
vance step  by  step. 
Don 't  believe  a  word  he  says ! 
Now  I  withdraw,  not  to  interrupt  the  course  of 
the  play  any  longer.  [Exit.] 

Adieu,  until  we  meet  again.  {Exit,  returns  again 
quickly.)  Apropos  —  another  thing  —  the  dis- 
cussion which  has  just  taken  place  among 
us  is  not  part  of  the  play  either.  [Exit.] 

The  Pit  (laughs). 

Jackpudding  (returns  again  quickly).  Let  us  finish  the 
wretched  play  today ;  make  believe  you  do  not 
notice  at  all  how  bad  it  is;  as  soon  as  I  get 
home  I'll  sit  down  and  write  one  for  you  that 
you  will  certainly  like. 

[Exit,  some  applause.] 
(Enter  Gottlieb  and  Hinze) 
Gottlieb.   Dear  Hinze,  it  is  true  you  are  doing  much  for 
me,  but  I  still  cannot  understand  what  good 
it  is  going  to  do  me. 
Upon  my  word,  I  want  to  make  you  happy. 
Happiness  must  come  soon,  very  soon,  other- 
wise it  will  be  too  late ;  it  is  already  half  past 
seven  and  the  comedy  ends  at  eight. 
Say,  what  the  devil  does  that  mean? 


Hinze. 
Gottlieb 


Hinze. 


236 


THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 


SCHLOSS. 

Fischer. 
Gottlieb, 

HiNZE. 


Gottlieb.  Oh,  I  was  lost  in  thought  —  See!  I  meant  to 
say,  how  beautifully  the  sun  has  risen.  The 
accursed  prompter  speaks  so  indistinctly;  and 
then  if  you  w^ant  to  extemporize  once  in  a 
while,  it  always  goes  wrong. 
HiNZE  (quietly).  Do  bethink  yourself,  otherwise  the  whole 
play  will  break  in  a  thousand  pieces. 

I  wish  somebody  would  tell  me  why  I  can  no 
longer  understand  anything. 

My  intelligence  is  at  a  standstill  too. 

So  my  fortune  is  yet  to  be  determined  today? 

Yes,  dear  Gottlieb,  even  before  the  sun  sets. 

See,  I  love  you  so  much  that  I  w^ould  run  through 
fire  for  you  —  and  you  doubt  my  sincerity? 
WiESENER.  Did  you  hear  that?    He  is  going  to  run  through 
fire.    Ah,  fine,  here  we  get  the  scene  from  the 
Magic  Flute  too,  with  the  fire  and  the  water ! 
Neighbor.  But  cats  do  not  go  into  the  water. 
WiESENER.  Why  so  much  the  greater  is  the  cat's  love  for 
his   master,   you   see;   that's   just  what  the 
author  wants  to  make  us  understand. 

Now  what  would  you  like  to  become  in  the  world, 
anyhow  ? 

Oh,  I  don't  know,  myself. 

Perhaps  you'd  like  to  become  a  prince,  or  a 
king? 

That,  better  than  anything. 

And  do  you  also  feel  the  strength  within  you  to 
make  a  nation  happy? 

Why  not?     If  only  I  am  once  happy  myself. 

Well,  then  content  yourself.  I  swear  to  you,  you 
shall  mount  the  throne.  [Exit.] 

It  would  have  to  come  about  mysteriously  — 
still,  of  course,  so  many  unexpected  things 
happen  in  the  world.  [Exit.] 

Do  notice  the  infinite  refinement  with  which  the 
cat  alwavs  holds  his  cane. 


HiNZE. 

Gottlieb. 

HiNZE. 

Gottlieb. 

HiNZE. 

Gottlieb. 

HiNZE. 

Gottlieb. 


Bottich. 


PUSS  IN  BOOTS  237 

Fischer.  You've  been  a  bore  to  us  for  the  longest  while; 
you  are  even  more  tiresome  than  the  play. 

ScHLOss.     You  even  add  to  the  confusion  in  our  heads. 

MiJLLER.  You  talk  constantly  and  do  not  know  what  you 
want. 

Many  Voices.  Out!  Out!  He's  a  nuisance!  (A  crowd; 
BoTTicHER  finds  himself  compelled  to  leave 
the  theatre.) 

Fischer.     He  with  his  talk  about  refinement! 

ScHLoss.  He  always  vexes  me  when  he  considers  himself 
a  connoisseur. 

An  open  field 

HiNZE  (with  knapsack  and  bag).  I  have  become  quite  ac- 
customed to  hunting.  Every  day  I  catch  part- 
ridges, rabbits  and  the  like,  and  the  dear  little 
animals  are  getting  more  and  more  practice 
in  being  caught.  (He  spreads  out  his  bag.) 
Now  the  season  of  the  nightingales  is  over,  I 
do  not  hear  a  single  one  singing. 

[Enter  the  two  lovers.] 

He.  Go,  you  bore  me. 

She.  I  am  disgusted  with  you. 

He.  a  fine  kind  of  love ! 

She.  Wretched  hypocrite,  how  you  have  deceived  me! 

He.  What  has  become  of  your  infinite  tenderness? 

She.  And  your  faithfulness? 

He.  Your  rapture? 

She.  Your  infatuation? 

Both.         The  devil  has  taken  it !    That  comes  of  marrying. 

Hinze.  The  hunt  has  never  yet  been  so  disturbed  —  if 
you  would  be  pleased  to  notice  that  this  open 
field  is  clearly  too  confined  for  your  sorrows, 
and  climb  up  some  mountain. 

He.  Insolent  wretch!    {Boxes  Hinze  on  the  ear.) 

She.  Boor!     (Also  boxes  Hinze  on  the  ear.) 

Hinze  (purrs). 

She.  It  seems  best  to  me  that  we  be  parted  again. 


238  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

He.  I  am  at  your  bidding.  [Exit  the  lovers.] 

HiNZE.  Nice  people,  these  so-called  human  beings.  Just 
look,  two  partridges;  I  will  carry  them  off 
quickly.  Now,  fortune,  make  haste,  for  I 
myself  am  almost  getting  impatient.  Now  I 
have  no  longer  any  desire  to  eat  the  part- 
ridges. It's  probably  thus,  that,  by  mere 
habit,  we  can  implant  in  our  nature  every 
possible  virtue.  [Exit.] 

Hall  in  the  Palace 
The  King  on  his  throne  ivith  the  Princess;  Leander  in  a 
lecturer's  chair;  opposite  him  Jackpudding  in  another 
lecturer's  chair;  in  the  centre  of  the  hall  a  costly  hat, 
decorated  with  gold  and  precious  stones,  is  fastened 
on  a  high  pole.    The  entire  court  is  present. 

King.  Never  yet  has  a  person  rendered  such  services 

to  his  country  as  this  amiable  Count  of 
Carabas.  Our  historian  has  already  almost 
filled  a  thick  volume,  so  often  has  the  Count 
presented  me  with  pretty  and  delicious  gifts, 
sometimes  even  twice  a  day,  through  his 
hunter.  My  appreciation  of  his  kindness  is 
boundless  and  I  desire  nothing  more  earnestly 
than  to  find  at  some  time  the  opportunity  of 
discharging  to  some  extent  the  great  debt  I 
owe  him. 

Princess.  Dearest  father,  would  your  majesty  not  most 
graciously  permit  the  learned  disputation 
to  begin?  My  heart  yearns  for  this  mental 
activity. 

King.  Yes,  it  may  begin  now.     Court  scholar  —  court 

fool  —  you  both  know  that  to  the  one  who  gains 
the  victory  in  this  disputation  is  allotted  that 
costly  hat ;  for  this  very  reason  have  I  had  it 
set  up  here,  so  that  you  may  have  it  always 


PUSS  IN  BOOTS 


239 


LeAjSTDER. 


Jackpud. 
Leander. 
Jackpud. 

Leutner. 

MULLER. 
SCHLOSS. 

Leander. 

Jackpud. 
Leander. 
Jackpud. 
Leander. 

Jackpud. 

Leander. 
Jackpud. 
Leander. 

Jackpud. 
Leander. 
Jackpud 


Fischer. 


before  your  eyes  and  never  be  in  want  of 

quick  wit. 

[Leander  and  Jackpudding  how.'\ 
The  theme  of  my  assertion  is,  that  a  recently 

published  play  by  the  name  of  Puss  in  Boots 

is  a  good  play. 
That  is  just  what  I  deny. 
Prove  that  it  is  bad. 
Prove  that  it  is  good. 
What's  this  again?     Why  that's  the  very  play 

they  are  giving  here,  if  I  am  not  mistaken. 
No  other. 
Do  tell  me  whether  I  am  awake  and  have  my  eyes 

open. 
The  play,"  if  not  perfectly  excellent,  is  still  to  be 

praised  in  several  respects. 
Not  one  respect. 
I  assert  that  it  displays  wit. 
I  assert  that  it  displays  none. 
You  are  a  fool;  how  can  you  pretend  to  judge 

concerning  wit? 
And  you  are  a  scholar ;  what  can  you  pretend  to 

understand  about  wit? 
Several  characters  are  well-sustained. 
Not  a  single  one. 
Then,  even  if  I  concede  else,  the  audience  is 

well  drawn  in  it. 
An  audience  never  has  a  character. 
I  am  almost  amazed  at  this  boldness. 
{to  the  pit).    Isn't  he  a  foolish  fellow?    Here  we 

are,   hand   and   glove   with   each   other   and 

sympathize   in   our  views   on   taste,   and   he 

wishes  to  assert  in  opposition  to  my  opinion, 

that  at  least  the  audience  in  Puss  in  Boots  is 

well  drawn. 
The  audience?    Why  no  audience  appears  in  the 

play. 


240 


THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 


Jackpud.  That's  even  better!  So,  then,  no  audience  is 
presented  in  it  at  all? 

MuLLER.  Why  not  a  bit  of  it,  unless  he  means  the  several 
kinds  of  fools  that  appear. 

Jackpud.  Now,  do  you  see,  scholar!  What  these  gentle- 
men down  there  are  saying  must  certainly  be 
true. 

Leander.  I  am  getting  confused,  but  still  I  won't  yield  the 
victory  to  you.  [Enter  Hinze.] 

Jackpud.  Sir  Hunter,  a  word!  (Hinze  approaches,  they 
ivhisper.) 

Hinze.  If  it 's  nothing  more  than  that.  {He  takes  off  his 
hoots,  climbs  up  the  pole,  then  takes  the  hat, 
jumps  doivn,  then  puts  his  hoots  on  again.) 

Jackpud.    Victory !    Victory ! 

King.  The  deuce !    How  clever  the  hunter  is ! 

Leander.  I  only  regret  that  I  have  been  vanquished  by  a 
fool,  that  learning  must  acknowledge  foolish- 
ness as  its  superior. 

King.  Keep  still;  you  wanted  the  hat,  he  wanted  the 

hat;  so  again  I  see  no  difference.  But  what 
have  you  brought,  hunter? 

Hinze.  The  Count  of  Carabas  commends  himself  most 
respectfully  to  your  majesty  and  sends  you 
these  two  partridges. 

Kjng.  Too  much!  too  much!    I  am  sinking  under  the 

burden  of  gratitude!  Long  since  should  I 
have  done  my  duty  and  visited  him;  today  I 
will  delay  no  longer.  Have  my  royal  carriage 
prepared  at  once  —  eight  horses  in  front  —  I 
want  to  go  driving  with  my  daughter.  You, 
Hunter,  are  to  show  us  the  way  to  the  castle 
of  the  count.  [Exit  ivith  retinue.] 

Hinze.    Jackpudding 

Hinze.        What  was  your  disputation  about,  anyhow? 

Jackpud.  I  asserted  that  a  certain  play,  which,  moreover, 
I  am  not  acquainted  with  at  all,  Puss  in  Boots, 
is  a  wretched  play. 


PUSS  IN  BOOTS 


241 


HiNZE.        So? 

Jackpud.    Adieu,  Sir  Hunter,  [Exit.] 

HiNZE  (alone).  I'm  all  in  the  dumps.  I,  myself,  helped 
the  fool  win  a  victory  against  a  play  in  which 
I  myself  am  taking  the  leading  part.  Fate! 
Fate!  Into  what  complications  do  you  so 
often  lead  us  mortals?  But  be  that  as  it 
may.  If  I  only  succeed  in  putting  my  beloved 
Gottlieb  on  the  throne,  I  will  gladly  forget  all 
my  other  troubles.  The  king  wishes  to  visit 
the  count?  Now  that  is  another  bad  situation 
which  I  must  clear  up ;  now  the  great,  import- 
ant day  has  arrived  on  which  I  need  you  so 
particularly,  you  boots.  Now  do  not  desert 
me;  all  must  be  determined  today.         [Exit.] 

Fischer.  Do  tell  me  what  this  is  —  the  play  itself  —  it  ap- 
pears again  as  a  play  in  the  play. 

ScHLOss.  Without  much  ceremony,  I  am  crazy  —  didn't  I 
say  at  once,  that  is  the  enjoyment  of  art  which 
you  are  said  to  have  here? 

Leutner.  No  tragedy  has  ever  affected  me  as  this  farce 
has. 

In  front  of  the  tavern 

The  Host  (reaping  corn  with  a  scythe).  This  is  hard 
work!  Well,  of  course  people  cannot  be  de- 
serting every  day  either.  I '  only  wish  the 
harvest  were  over.  After  all,  life  consists  of 
nothing  but  work;  now  draw  beer,  then  clean 
glasses,  then  pour  it  out  —  now  even  reap. 
Life  means  work  —  and  here  some  learned 
folk  are  even  so  wicked,  in  their  books,  as  to 
try  to  put  sleep  out  of  fashion,  because  one 
does  not  live  enough  for  one's  time.  But  I 
am  a  great  friend  of  sleep.         [Enter  Hinze.] 

Hinze.  Whoever  wants  to  hear  something  wonderful, 
listen  to  me  now !  How  I  have  been  running ! 
Vol.  IV— 16 


242  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

—  first  from  the  royal  palace  to  Gottlieb,  sec- 
ond with  Gottlieb  to  the  palace  of  the  Bugbear 
where  I  left  him,  third  from  there  back  again 
to  the  king,  fourth  I  am  now  racing  ahead  of 
the  king's  coach  like  a  courier  and  showing 
him  the  way.    Hey !  good  friend ! 

Host.  Who's  that?     Countr^nnan,  you  must  probably 

be  a  stranger,  for  the  people  in  this  neighbor- 
hood know  that  I  do  not  sell  any  beer  about 
this  time ;  I  need  it  for  myself ;  when  one  does 
work  like  mine,  one  must  also  fortify  one's 
self.    I  am  sorry,  but  I  cannot  help  you. 

HiNZE.  I  do  not  want  any  beer,  I  never  drink  beer;  I 
only  want  to  say  a  few  words  to  you. 

Host.  You  must  certainly  be  a  regular  idler,  to  at- 

tempt to  disturb  industrious  people  in  their 
occupation. 

HiNZE.  I  do  not  wish  to  disturb  you.  Just  listen:  the 
neighboring  king  will  drive  by  here,  he  will 
probably  step  out  of  his  carriage  and  inquire 
to  whom  these  villages  belong.  If  your  life  is 
dear  to  you,  if  you  do  not  wish  to  be  hanged 
or  burned,  then  be  sure  to  answer:  to  the 
Count  of  Carabas. 

Host.  But,  Sir,  we  are  subject  to  the  law. 

HiNZE.  I  know  that  well  enough,  but,  as  I  said,  if  you 
do  not  wish  to  die,  this  region  here  belongs  to 
the  Count  of  Carabas.  [Exit.] 

Host.  Many  thanks!    Now  this  would  be  the  finest 

kind  of  opportunity  for  me  to  get  out  of  ever 
having  to  work  again.  All  I  need  do  is  to  say 
to  the  king  —  the  country  belongs  to  the  Bug- 
bear. But  no,  idleness  breeds  vice:  Ora  et 
lab  or  a  is  my  motto. 

[A  fine  carriage  with  eight  horses,  many 
servants  behind;  it  stops;  the  King  and 
Princess  step  out.] 


PUSS  IN  BOOTS 


243 


Pkincess.   I  am  somewhat  curious  to  see  the  Count. 

King.  So  am  I,  my  daughter.     Good  day,  my  friend. 

To  whom  do  these  villages  here  belong? 

Host  (aside).  He  asks  as  though  he  w^ere  ready  to  have 
me  hanged  at  once. —  To  the  Count  of  Carabas, 
your  majesty. 

King.  A  beautiful  country.    But  I  always  thought  the 

country  must  look  altogether  different  if  I 
should  cross  the  border,  judging  from  the 
maps.  Do  help  me  a  bit.  (He  climbs  up  a 
tree  quickly.) 

Peincess.   What  are  you  doing,  my  royal  father? 

King.  I  like  open  views  on  beautiful  landscapes. 

Peincess.    Can  you  see  far  ? 

King.  Oh,  yes,  and  if  it  were  not  for  those  annoying 

mountains,  you  would  see  even  further.  Oh, 
my,  the  tree  is  full  of  caterpillars !  {He  climbs 
down  again.) 

Princess.  That  is  because  it  is  a  scene  in  nature  which  has 
not  yet  been  idealized ;  imagination  must  first 
ennoble  it. 

King.  I  wish  you  could  take  the  caterpillars  off  me  by 

means  of  imagination.  But  get  in,  we  must 
drive  ahead. 

Princess.  Farewell,  good,  innocent  peasant.  {They  get 
into  the  carriage;  it  drives  on.) 

Host.  How  the  world  has  changed !  If  you  read  in  old 

books  or  listen  to  old  people's  stories,  they 
always  got  louis  d  'ors  or  something  like  that  if 
they  spoke  to  a  king  or  a  prince.  Such  a  king 
would  formerly  never  dare  to  open  his  mouth 
if  he  did  not  press  gold  pieces  into  your  hand 
at  once.  But  now !  How,  pray,  is  one  to  make 
one's  fortune  unexpectedly,  if  the  chance  is 
over  even  with  kings?  Innocent  peasant!  I 
wish  to  God  I  didn't  owe  anything  —  that 
comes  of  the  new  sentimental  descriptions  of 


244 


THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 


country  life.  Such  a  king  is  powerful  and 
envies  people  of  our  station.  I  must  only 
thank  God  that  he  did  not  hang  me.  The 
strange  hunter  was  our  Bugbear  himself  after 
all.  At  least  it  will  now  appear  in  the  paper, 
I  suppose,  that  the  king  has  spoken  to  me 
graciously.  [Exit.] 

Another  region 
KuNZ  (reaping  corn).  Bitter  work !  And  if  at  least  I  were 
doing  it  for  myself  —  but  this  compulsory  vil- 
lainage !  Here  one  must  do  nothing  but  sweat 
for  the  Bugbear  and  he  does  not  even  thank 
one.  Of  course  they  always  say  in  this  world 
that  laws  are  necessary  to  keep  the  people  in 
order,  but  what  need  there  is  here  of  our  Law 
who  devours  all  of  us,  I  cannot  understand. 

[HiNZE  comes  runnhig.'] 

Now  I  have  blisters  on  my  soles  already  —  well, 
it  doesn't  matter,  Gottlieb,  Gottlieb  must  get 
the  throne  for  it.     Hey,  good  friend! 

Who's  this  fellow? 

The  king  will  drive  by  here  directly.  If  he  asks 
you  to  whom  all  this  belongs,  you  must  answer 
—  to  the  Count  of  Carabas ;  otherwise  you  will 
be  chopped  into  a  thousand  million  pieces. 
For  the  welfare  of  the  public,  the  law  desires 
it  thus. 

For  the  welfare  of  the  public? 

Naturally,  for  otherwise  the  play  would  never 
end. 

Your  life  is  probably  dear  to  you.  [Exit.] 

That's  just  how  the  edicts  always  sound.    Well, 

I  don 't  mind  saying  that,  if  only  no  new  taxes 

result  from  it.    One  must  trust  no  innovation. 

[The  coach  drives  vp  and  stops;  the  King 

and  the  Princess  step  out.] 


HiNZE. 


KUNZ. 
HiNZE. 


Fischer. 

SCHLOSS. 

HiNZE. 
KuNZ. 


PUSS  IN  BOOTS  245 

Ejng.  a  fine  landscape,  too.    We  have  already  seen  a 

great  deal  of  very  fine  country.  To  whom  does 
this  land  belong? 

KuNz.         To  the  Count  of  Carabas. 

King.  He  has  splendid  estates,  that  must  be  true  —  and 

so  near  mine ;  daughter,  that  seems  to  be  a 
good  match  for  you.    What  is  your  opinion? 

Princess.  You  embarrass  me,  my  father.  What  new  things 
one  sees  while  traveling,  though.  Do  tell  me, 
pray,  good  peasant,  why  do  you  cut  down  the 
straw  like  that? 

KuNZ  (laughing).  Why,  this  is  the  harvest,  Mam'selle 
Queen  —  the  corn. 

King.  Corn?    What  do  you  use  that  for,  pray? 

KuNZ  {laughing).    Bread  is  baked  from  that. 

King.  Pray,    daughter,   for   heaven's    sake,   bread   is 

baked  of  it!  Who  would  ever  think  of  such 
tricks !  Nature  is  something  marvelous,  after 
all.  Here,  good  friend,  get  a  drink,  it  is  warm 
today.  {He  steps  in  again  with  the  Princess; 
the  carriage  drives  away.) 

Kunz.  If  he  wasn't  a  king,  you'd  almost  think  he  was 
stupid.  Doesn't  know  what  corn  is!  Well, 
you  learn  new  things  every  day,  of  course. 
Here  he  has  given  me  a  shining  piece  of  gold 
and  I'll  fetch  myself  a  can  of  good  beer  at 
once.  [Exit.] 

Another  part  of  the  country,  beside  a  river 

Gottlieb.  Now  here  I've  been  standing  two  hours  already, 
waiting  for  my  friend,  Hinze.  And  he's  not 
coming  yet.  There  he  is!  But  how  he's  run- 
ning—  he  seems  all  out  of  breath. 

[Hinze  comes  running.] 

HiNZB.  Well,  friend  Gottlieb,  take  off  your  clothes 
quickly  ? 

Gottlieb.   My  clothes? 

Hinze.        And  then  jump  into  the  water  here 


246 


THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 


Gottlieb.   Into  the  water? 

HiNZE.        And  then  I  will  throw  the  clothing  into  the 

bush 

Gottlieb.   Into  the  bush? 

HiNZE.        And  then  you  are  provided  for! 

Gottlieb.   I  agree  with  you;  if  I  am  drowned  and  my 

clothes  gone,  I  am  well  enough  provided  for. 

HiNZE.        There  is  no  time  for  joking 

Gottlieb.   I  am  not  joking  at  all.    Is  that  what  I  had  to 

wait  here  for? 
HiNZE.        Undress ! 

Gottlieb.   Well,  I'll  do  anything  to  please  you. 
HiNZE.         Come,  you  are  only  to  take  a  little  bath.     {Exit 

with  Gottlieb.    Then  he  comes  hack  with  the 

clothing  ivhich  he  throws  into  a  hush.)    Help! 

Help!    Help! 

[The  carriage.     The  King  looks  out  of  the 
coach  door.'[ 
King.  What  is  it,  Hunter?    Why  do  you  shout  so? 

Hinze.        Help,  your  majesty,  the  Count  of  Carabas  is 

drowned ! 
King.  Drowned ! 

Princess  {in  the  carriage).    Carabas! 
King.  My  daughter  in  a  faint!    The  Count  drowned! 

Hinze.        Perhaps  he  can  still  be  saved;  he  is  lying  there 

in  the  water. 
King.  Servants!     Try   everything,   anything   to   pre- 

serve the  noble  man. 
Servant.     We  have  rescued  him,  your  majesty. 
Hinze.        Misfortune    upon   misfortune,   my  king!     The 

Count  was  bathing  here  in  the  clear  water  and 

a  rogue  stole  his  clothing. 
King.         Unstrap  my  trunk  at  once  —  give  him  some  of 

my  clothes.     Cheer  up,  daughter,  the  Count  is 

rescued. 
Hinze.        I  must  hurry.                                              [ExitJ] 
Gottlieb  {in  the  king's  clothing).    Your  majesty 


PUSS  IN  BOOTS 


247 


King.  Here  is  the  Count!      I  recognize  him  by  my 

clothing!  Step  in,  my  best  friend  —  how  are 
you?  Where  do  you  get  all  the  rabbits?  I 
cannot  compose  myself  for  joy!  Drive  on, 
coachman ! 

[The  carriage  drives  off  quickly.] 

Servant.  None  but  the  hangman  could  come  up  so  quickly 
—  now  I  have  the  pleasure  of  running  behind 
on  foot,  and  besides  I'm  just  as  wet  as  a  cat. 

Leutnee.  How  many  more  times,  pray,  will  the  carriage 
appear? 

WiESENER.  Neighbor !     Why,  you  are  asleep ! 

Neighbor.  Not  at  all  —  a  fine  play. 

Palace  of  the  Bugbear 

The  Bugbear  appears  as  a  rhinoceros ;  a  poor  peasant 
stands  before  him 

Peasant.    May  it  please  your  honor 

Bugbear.    There  must  be  justice,  my  friend. 

Peasant.    I  cannot  pay  just  now. 

Bugbear.  Be  still,  you  have  lost  the  case ;  the  law  demands 
money  and  your  punishment;  consequently 
your  land  must  be  sold.  There  is  nothing  else 
to  be  done  and  this  is  for  the  sake  of  justice. 

[Exit  peasant.] 

Bugbear  {who  is  re-transformed  into  an  ordinary  bugbear). 
These  people  would  lose  all  respect  if  they 
were  not  compelled  to  fear  in  this  way. 

[An  officer  enters,  boiving  profusely.] 

Officer.     May  it  please  you,  honored  sir  —  I 

Bugbear.    What's  your  trouble,  my  friend? 

Officer.  With  your  kindest  permission,  I  tremble  and 
quiver  in  your  honor's  formidable  presence. 

Bugbear.    Oh,  this  is  far  from  my  most  terrible  form. 

Officer.  I  really  came  —  in  matters  —  to  beg  you  to  take 
my  part  against  my  neighbor.  I  had  also 
brought  this  purse  with  me  —  but  the  presence 
of  Lord  Law  is  too  frightful  for  me. 


248 


THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 


Bugbear  {suddenly  changes  into  a  mouse  and  sits  in  a 
corner). 

Officer.      Why,  where  has  the  Bugbear  gone? 

Bugbear  {in  a  delicate  voice).  Just  put  the  money  down 
there  on  the  table;  I  will  sit  here  to  avoid 
frightening  you. 

Officer.  Here.  {Relays  the  money  down.)  Oh,  this  jus- 
tice is  a  splendid  thing  —  how  can  one  be 
afraid  of  such  a  mouse!  {^Exit.'\ 

Bugbear  {assumes  his  natural  form).  A  pretty  good  purse 
—  of  course  one  must  sympathize  with  human 
weakness.  [Enter  Hinze.] 

HiNZE.  With  your  permission  —  ( aside )  Hinze,  you  must 
pluck  up  courage —  {aloud)  Your  Excellency  I 

Bugbear.    What  do  you  wish? 

HiNZE.  I  am  a  scholar  traveling  through  this  region 
and  wished  to  take  the  liberty  of  making  your 
excellency 's  acquaintance. 

Bugbear.    Very  well,  then,  make  my  acquaintance. 

HiNZE.  You  are  a  mighty  prince ;  your  love  of  justice  is 
known  all  over  the  world. 

Bugbear.    Yes,  I  don't  doubt  it.    Do  sit  down ! 

HiNZE.  They  tell  many  wonderful  things  about  Your 
Highness 


Bugbear.  Yes,  people  always  want  something  to  talk  about 
and  so  the  reigning  monarchs  must  be  the  first 
to  be  discussed. 

HiNZE.  But  still,  there  is  one  thing  I  cannot  believe,  that 
Your  Excellency  can  transform  yourself  into 
an  elephant  and  a  tiger. 

Bugbear.  I  will  give  you  an  example  of  it  at  once.  {He 
changes  into  a  lion.) 

HiNZE  {draws  out  a  portfolio,  trembling).  Permit  me  to 
make  note  of  this  marvel  —  but  now  would  you 
also  please  resume  your  natural  charming 
form?     Otherwise  I  shall  die  of  fear. 


PUSS  IN  BOOTS  249 

Bugbear   {in  his  own  form).    Those   are  tricks,  friend! 

Don 't  you  think  so  ? 
HiNZE.  Marvelous!  But  another  thing  —  they  also  say 
you  can  transform  yourself  into  very  small 
animals  —  with  your  permission,  that  is  even 
far  more  incomprehensible  to  me ;  for,  do  tell 
me,  what  becomes  of  your  large  body  then? 
BuGBEAE.    I  will  do  that  too. 

[He   changes  into  a  mouse.    Hinze  leaps 
after  him,  the  Bughear  flees  into  another 
room,  HiNZE  after  him.] 
Hinze  {coming  hack).    Freedom  and  Equality!    The  Law 
is  devoured!     Now  indeed  the  Tiers  —  Etat! 
Gottlieb  will  surely  secure  the  government. 
ScHLOss.    Why,  a  revolutionary  play  after  all?     Then  for 
heaven's  sake,  you  surely  shouldn't  stamp! 
[The   stamping    continues,   Wiesener   and 
several  others  applaud,  Hinze  creeps  into 
a  corner  and  finally  even  leaves  the  stage. 
The  playwright  is  heard  quarreling  he- 
hind  the  scenes  and  then  enters.] 
Playwr.     What  am  I  to  do?     The  play  will  be  over  di- 
rectly—  everything  would  perhaps  have  run 
smoothly  —  now  just  in  this  moral  scene  I  had 
expected    so   much    applause.     If   this    were 
only  not  so  far  away  from  the  king's  palace, 
I  would  fetch  the  peacemaker;  he  explained 
to  me  at  the  end  of  the  second  act  all  the 
fables  of  Orpheus  —  but  am  I  not  a  fool  ?     I  be- 
came quite  confused  —  why,  this  is  the  theatre 
here,  and  the  peacemaker  must  be  somewhere 
behind  the  scenes  —  I  will  look  for  him  —  I 
must  find  him  —  he  shall  save  me!     {Exit,  re- 
turns again  quickly.)      He  is  not  there,  Sir 
Peacemaker!    An  empty  echo  mocks  me  —  he 


250  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

has  deserted  me,  his  playwright.    Ha!  there 
I  see  him  —  he  must  come  forward. 

[The  pauses  are  always  filled  hy  stamping 
in  the  pit  and  the  playwright  delivers  this 
monologue  in  recitative,  so  that  the  effect 
is  rather  melodramatic] 
Peacemaker  {behind  the  scenes).    No,  I  will  not  appear. 
Playwr.     But  why  not,  pray? 
Peacemak.  Why,  I  have  already  undressed. 
Playwr.     That  doesn't  matter.     {He  pushes  him  forward 

by  force.) 
Peacemaker  {appearing  in  his  ordinary  dress,  with  the  set 
of  bells).     Well,  you  may  take  the  responsi- 
bility.   {He  plays  on  the  bells  and  sings.) 
These  sacred  halls  of  beauty 
Revenge  have  never  known. 
For  love  guides  back  to  duty 
The  man  who  vice  has  sown. 
Then  he  is  led  by  friendly  hand, 
Glad  and  content,  to  a  better  land. 

[The  pit  begins  to  applaud;  meanwhile  the 
scene  is  changed,  the  fire  and  water  taken 
from  the  Magic  Flute  begin  to  play,  above 
appears  the  open  temple  of  the  sun,  the 
sky  is  clear  and  Jupiter  sits  within  it,  be- 
neath Hell  with  Terkaleon,  cobalds  and 
witches  on  the  stage,  many  lights,  etc. 
The  audience  applauds  excessively,  every- 
thing is  astir.] 
Wiesener.  Now  the  cat  has  only  to  go  through  fire  and 
water  and  then  the  play  is  finished. 

[Enter  the  King,  the  Princess,  Gottlieb, 
HiNZE  and  servants.] 
HiNZE.        This  is  the  palace  of  the  Count  of  Carabas. 

Why,  the  dickens,  how  this  has  changed! 
King.         A  beautiful  palace ! 


PUSS  IN  BOOTS  251 

HiNZE.        As  long  as  matters  have  gone  thus  far  {taking 

Gottlieb   by   the   hand)    you  must  first  walk 

through  the  fire  here  and  then  through  the 

water  there. 

Gottlieb  {walks  through  fire  and  water  to  the  sound  of 

flute  and  drum.) 
HiNZE.        You  have  stood  the  test ;  now,  my  prince,  you  are 

altogether  worthy  of  the  government. 
Gottlieb.  Governing,  Hinze,  is  a  curious  matter. 
King.  Accept,  now,  the  hand  of  my  daughter. 

Princess.   How  happy  I  am! 
Gottlieb.   I,  likewise.     But,  my  king,  I  would  desire  to 

reward  my  servant. 
King.  By   all   means;   I   herewith   raise   him   to   the 

nobility.      {He    hangs    an    order    about    the 
cat*s  neck.)    What  is  his  actual  name? 
Gottlieb.   Hinze.    By  birth  he  is  of  but  a  lowly  family — 

but  his  merits  exalt  him. 
Leander  {quickly  stepping  forward). 

After  the  King  I  rode  with  due  submission. 
And  now  implore  his  Majesty's  permission 
To  close  with  laudatory  lines  poetic 
This  play  so  very  wondrous  and  prophetic. 
In  praise  of  cats  my  grateful  anthem  soars  — 
The  noblest  of  those  creatures  on  all  fours 
Who  daily  bring  contentment  to  our  doors. 
In  Egypt  cats  were  gods,  and  very  nice  is 
The  Tom-cat  who  was  cousin  to  Great  Isis. 
They  still  protect  our  cellar,  attic,  kitchen. 
And  serve  the  man  who  this  world's  goods  is 

rich  in. 
Our  homes  had  household  gods  of  yore  to  grace 

them. 
If  cats  be  gods,  then  with  the  Lares  place  them! 
{Drumming.     The  curtain  falls.] 


FAIR  ECKBERT  (1796) 

By  Ludwig  Tieck 
translated  by  paul  b.  thomas 

[N  a  region  of  the  Hartz  Mountains  there  lived 
a  knight  whom  people  generally  called  simply- 
Fair  Eckbert.  He  was  about  forty  years  old, 
f^^^S^S^i  scarcely  of  medium  height,  and  short,  verj^ 
fair  hair  fell  thick  and  straight  over  his  pale, 
sunken  face.  He  lived  very  quietly  unto  himself,  and  was 
never  implicated  in  the  feuds  of  his  neighbors ;  people  saw 
him  but  rarely  outside  the  encircling  w^all  of  his  little  castle. 
His  wife  loved  solitude  quite  as  much  as  he,  and  both 
seemed  to  love  each  other  from  the  heart;  only  they  were 
wont  to  complain  because  Heaven  seemed  unwilling  to  bless 
their  marriage  with  children. 

Very  seldom  was  Eckbert  visited  by  guests,  and  even 
when  he  was,  almost  no  change  on  their  account  was  made 
in  the  ordinary  routine  of  his  life.  Fnigality  dwelt  there, 
and  Economy  herself  seemed  to  regulate  everything.  Eck- 
bert was  then  cheerful  and  gay — only  when  he  was  alone 
one  noticed  in  him  a  certain  reserve,  a  quiet  distant 
melancholy. 

Nobody  came  so  often  to  the  castle  as  did  Philip  Walther, 
a  man  to  whom  Eckbert  had  become  greatly  attached, 
because  he  found  in  him  very  much  his  own  way  of  think- 
ing. His  home  was  really  in  Franconia,  but  he  often  spent 
more  than  half  a  year  at  a  time  in  the  vicinity  of  Eckbert 's 
castle,  where  he  busied  himself  gathering  herbs  and  stones 
and  arranging  them  in  order.  He  had  a  small  income,  and 
was  therefore  dependent  upon  no  one.  Eckbert  often  ac- 
companied him  on  his  lonely  rambles,  and  thus  a  closer 
friendship  developed  between  the  two  men  with  each  suc- 
ceeding year. 

[252] 


FAIR  ECKBERT  253 

There  are  hours  in  which  it  worries  a  man  to  keep  from 
a  friend  a  secret,  which  hitherto  he  has  often  taken  great 
pains  to  conceal.  The  soul  then  feels  an  irresistible  impulse 
to  impart  itself  completely,  and  reveal  its  innermost  self 
to  the  friend,  in  order  to  make  him  so  much  the  more  a 
friend.  At  these  moments  delicate  souls  disclose  them- 
selves to  each  other,  and  it  doubtless  sometimes  happens 
that  the  one  shrinks  back  in  fright  from  its  acquaintance 
with  the  other. 

One  foggy  evening  in  early  autumn  Eckbert  was  sitting 
with  his  friend  and  his  wife.  Bertha,  around  the  hearth- 
fire.  The  flames  threw  a  bright  glow  out  into  the  room  and 
played  on  the  ceiling  above.  The  night  looked  in  darkly 
through  the  windows,  and  the  trees  outside  were  shivering 
in  the  damp  cold.  Walther  was  lamenting  that  he  had  so 
far  to  go  to  get  back  home,  and  Eckbert  proposed  that  he 
remain  there  and  spend  half  the  night  in  familiar  talk,  and 
then  sleep  until  morning  in  one  of  the  rooms  of  the  castle. 
Walther  accepted  the  proposal,  whereupon  wine  and  sup- 
per were  brought  in,  the  fire  was  replenished  with  wood,  and 
the  conversation  of  the  two  friends  became  more  cheery 
and  confidential. 

After  the  dishes  had  been  cleared  off,  and  the  servants 
had  gone  out,  Eckbert  took  Walther 's  hand  and  said: 

*  *  Friend,  you  ought  once  to  let  my  wife  tell  you  the  story 
of  her  youth,  which  is  indeed  strange  enough. ' ' 

"  Gladly,"  replied  Walther,  and  they  all  sat  down  again 
around  the  hearth.  It  was  now  exactly  midnight,  and  the 
moon  shone  intermittently  through  the  passing  clouds. 

* '  You  must  forgive  me, ' '  began  Bertha,  * '  but  my  hus- 
band says  your  thoughts  are  so  noble  that  it  is  not  right  to 
conceal  anything  from  you.  Only  you  must  not  regard  my 
story  as  a  fairy-tale,  no  matter  how  strange  it  may  sound. 

' '  I  was  born  in  a  village,  my  father  was  a  poor  shepherd. 
The  household  economy  of  my  parents  was  on  a  humble 
plane  —  often  they  did  not  know  where  they  were  going  to 
get  their  bread.    But  what  grieved  me  far  more  than  that 


254  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

was  the  fact  that  my  father  and  mother  often  quarreled 
over  their  poverty,  and  cast  bitter  reproaches  at  each  other. 
Furthermore  I  was  constantly  hearing  about  myself,  that  I 
was  a  simple,  stupid  child,  who  could  not  perform  even  the 
most  trifling  task.  And  I  was  indeed  extremely  awkward 
and  clumsy ;  I  let  everything  drop  from  my  hands,  I  learned 
neither  to  sew  nor  to  spin,  I  could  do  nothing  to  help  about 
the  house.  The  misery  of  my  parents,  however,  I  under- 
stood extremely  well.  I  often  used  to  sit  in  the  corner  and 
fill  my  head  with  notions  —  how  I  would  help  them  if  I 
should  suddenly  become  rich,  how  I  would  shower  them  with 
gold  and  silver  and  take  delight  in  their  astonishment. 
Then  I  would  see  spirits  come  floating  up,  who  would  re- 
veal subterranean  treasures  to  me  or  give  me  pebbles  which 
afterward  turned  into  gems.  In  short,  the  most  wonderful 
fantasies  would  occupy  my  mind,  and  when  I  had  to  get  up 
to  help  or  carry  something,  I  would  show  myself  far  more 
awkward  than  ever,  for  the  reason  that  my  head  would  be 
giddy  with  all  these  strange  notions. 

**  My  father  was  always  very  cross  with  me,  because  I 
was  such  an  absolutely  useless  burden  on  the  household ;  so 
he  often  treated  me  with  great  cruelty,  and  I  seldom  heard 
him  say  a  kind  word  to  me.  Thus  it  went  along  until  I  was 
about  eight  years  old,  when  serious  steps  were  taken  to 
get  me  to  do  and  to  learn  something.  My  father  believed 
that  it  was  sheer  obstinacy  and  indolence  on  my  part,  so 
that  I  might  spend  my  days  in  idleness.  Enough — he 
threatened  me  unspeakably,  and  when  this  turned  out  to 
be  of  no  avail,  he  chastised  me  most  barbarously,  adding 
that  this  punishment  was  to  be  repeated  every  day  because 
I  was  an  absolutely  useless  creature. 

"All  night  long  I  cried  bitterly  —  I  felt  so  entirely  for- 
saken, and  I  pitied  myself  so  that  I  wanted  to  die.  I 
dreaded  the  break  of  day,  and  did  not  know  what  to  do.  I 
longed  for  any  possible  kind  of  ability,  and  could  not  under- 
stand at  all  why  I  was  more  stupid  than  the  other  children 
of  my  acquaintance.    I  was  on  the  verge  of  despair. 


FAIR  ECKBERT  255 

' '  When  the  day  dawned,  I  got  up,  and,  scarcely  realizing 
what  I  was  doing,  opened  the  door  of  our  little  cabin.  I 
found  myself  in  the  open  field,  soon  afterward  in  a  forest, 
into  which  the  daylight  had  hardly  yet  shone.  I  ran  on 
without  looking  back ;  I  did  not  get  tired,  for  I  thought  all 
the  time  that  my  father  would  surely  overtake  me  and 
treat  me  even  more  cruelly  on  account  of  my  running  away. 

'^  When  I  emerged  from  the  forest  again  the  sun  was 
already  fairly  high,  and  I  saw,  lying  ahead  of  me,  some- 
thing dark,  over  which  a  thick  mist  was  resting.  One 
moment  I  was  obliged  to  scramble  over  hills,  the  next  to 
follow  a  winding  path  between  rocks.  I  now  guessed  that 
I  must  be  in  the  neighboring  mountains,  and  I  began  to 
feel  afraid  of  the  solitude.  For,  living  in  the  plain,  I  had 
never  seen  any  mountains,  and  the  mere  word  mountains, 
whenever  I  heard  them  talked  about,  had  an  exceedingly 
terrible  sound  to  my  childish  ear.  I  hadn't  the  heart  to 
turn  back  —  it  was  indeed  precisely  my  fear  which  drove 
me  onwards.  I  often  looked  around  me  in  terror  when  the 
wind  rustled  through  the  leaves  above  me,  or  when  a  dis- 
tant sound  of  chopping  rang  out  through  the  quiet  morning. 
Finally,  when  I  began  to  meet  colliers  and  miners  and  heard 
a  strange  pronunciation,  I  nearly  fainted  with  fright. 

' '  You  must  forgive  my  prolixity.  As  often  as  I  tell  this 
story  I  involuntarily  become  garrulous,  and  Eckbert,  the 
only  person  to  whom  I  have  told  it,  has  spoiled  me  by  his 
attention. 

*'  I  passed  through  several  villages  and  begged,  for  I 
now  felt  hungry  and  thirsty.  I  helped  myself  along  very 
well  with  the  answers  I  gave  to  questions  asked  me.  I  had 
wandered  along  in  this  way  for  about  four  days,  when  I 
came  to  a  small  foot-path  which  led  me  farther  from  the 
highway.  The  rocks  around  me  now  assumed  a  different, 
far  stranger  shape.  They  were  cliffs,  and  were  piled  up 
on  one  another  in  such  a  way  that  they  looked  as  if  the  first 
gust  of  mnd  would  hurl  them  all  together  into  a  heap.  I 
did  not  know  whether  to  go  on  or  not.    I  had  always  slept 


256  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

over  night  either  in  out-of-the-way  shepherds '  huts,  or  else 
in  the  open  woods,  for  it  was  just  then  the  most  beautiful 
season  of  the  year.  Here  I  came  across  no  human  habi- 
tations whatever,  nor  could  I  expect  to  meet  with  any  in 
this  wilderness.  The  rocks  became  more  and  more  terrible 
—  I  often  had  to  pass  close  by  dizzy  precipices,  and  finally 
even  the  path  under  my  feet  came  to  an  end.  I  was  abso- 
lutely wretched ;  I  wept  and  screamed,  and  my  voice  echoed 
horribly  in  the  rocky  glens.  And  now  night  set  in ;  I  sought 
out  a  mossy  spot  to  lie  do^^^l  on,  but  I  could  not  sleep.  All 
night  long  I  heard  the  most  peculiar  noises ;  first  I  thought 
it  was  wild  beasts,  then  the  wind  moaning  through  the 
rocks,  then  again  strange  birds.  I  prayed,  and  not  until 
toward  morning  did  I  fall  asleep. 

' '  I  woke  up  when  the  daylight  shone  in  my  face.  In  front 
of  me  there  was  a  rock.  I  climbed  up  on  it,  hoping  to  find 
a  way  out  of  the  wilderness,  and  perhaps  to  see  some  houses 
or  people.  But  when  I  reached  the  top,  everything,  as  far 
as  my  eye  could  see,  was  like  night  about  me  —  all  over- 
cast with  a  gloomy  mist.  The  day  was  dark  and  dismal, 
and  not  a  tree,  not  a  meadow,  not  even  a  thicket  could  my 
eye  discern,  with  the  exception  of  a  few  bushes  which,  in 
solitary  sadness,  had  shot  up  through  the  crevices  in  the 
rocks.  It  is  impossible  to  describe  the  longing  I  felt  merely 
to  see  a  human  being,  even  had  it  been  tlie  most  strange- 
looking  person  before  whom  I  should  inevitably  have  taken 
fright.  At  the  same  time  I  was  ravenously  hungry.  I  sat 
down  and  resolved  to  die.  But  after  a  while  the  desire  to 
live  came  off  victorious ;  I  got  up  quickly  and  walked  on  all 
day  long,  occasionally  crying  out.  At  last  I  was  scarcely 
conscious  of  what  I  was  doing;  I  was  tired  and  exhausted, 
had  hardly  any  desire  to  live,  and  yet  was  afraid  to  die. 

*  *  Toward  evening  the  region  around  me  began  to  assume 
a  somewhat  more  friendly  aspect.  My  thoughts  and  wishes 
took  new  life,  and  the  desire  to  live  awakened  in  all  my 
veins.  I  now  thought  I  heard  the  swishing  of  a  mill  in  the 
distance ;  I  redoubled  my  steps,  and  how  relieved,  how  joy- 


FAIR  ECKBERT  257 

ous  I  felt  when  at  last  I  actually  reached  the  end  of  the 
dreary  rocks !  Woods  and  meadows  and,  far  ahead,  pleas- 
ant mountains  lay  before  me  again.  I  felt  as  if  I  had 
stepped  out  of  hell  into  paradise ;  the  solitude  and  my  help- 
lessness did  not  seem  to  me  at  all  terrible  now. 

^ '  Instead  of  the  hoped-for  mill,  I  came  upon  a  water-fall, 
which,  to  be  sure,  considerably  diminished  my  joy.  I  dished 
up  some  water  from  the  river  with  my  hand  and  drank. 
Suddenly  I  thought  I  heard  a  low  cough  a  short  distance 
away.  Never  have  I  experienced  so  pleasant  a  surprise  as 
at  that  moment ;  I  went  nearer  and  saw,  on  the  edge  of  the 
forest,  an  old  woman,  apparently  resting.  She  was  dressed 
almost  entirely  in  black ;  a  black  hood  covered  her  head  and 
a  large  part  of  her  face.  In  her  hand  she  held  a  walking- 
stick. 

*  *  I  approached  her  and  asked  for  help ;  she  had  me  sit 
down  beside  her  and  gave  me  bread  and  some  wine.  While 
I  was  eating  she  sang  a  hymn  in  a  shrill  voice,  and  when 
she  had  finished  she  said  that  I  might  follow  her. 

**  I  was  delighted  with  this  proposal,  strange  as  the 
voice  and  the  personality  of  the  old  woman  seemed  to  me. 
She  walked  rather  fast  with  her  cane,  and  at  every  step 
she  distorted  her  face,  which  at  first  made  me  laugh.  The 
wild  rocks  steadily  receded  behind  us  —  we  crossed  a  pleas- 
ant meadow,  and  then  passed  through  a  fairly  long  forest. 
When  we  emerged  from  this,  the  sun  was  just  setting,  and 
I  shall  never  forget  the  view  and  the  feelings  of  that  even- 
ing. Everything  was  fused  in  the  most  delicate  red  and 
gold;  the  tree-tops  stood  forth  in  the  red  glow  of  evening, 
the  charming  light  was  spread  out  over  the  fields,  the  forest 
and  the  leaves  of  the  trees  were  motionless,  the  clear  sky 
looked  like  an  open  paradise,  and  the  evening  bells  of  the 
villages  rang  out  with  a  strange  moumfulness  across  the 
lea.  My  young  soul  now  got  its  first  presentment  of  the 
world  and  its  events.  I  forgot  myself  and  my  guide;  my 
spirit  and  my  eyes  were  wandering  among  golden  clouds. 

**  We  now  climbed  a  hill,  which  was  planted  with  birch- 

VoL.  IV— 17 


258  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

trees,  and  from  its  summit  looked  down  into  a  little  valley, 
likewise  full  of  birches.  In  the  midst  of  the  trees  stood  a 
little  hut.  A  lively  barking  came  to  our  ears,  and  presently 
a  spry  little  dog  was  dancing  around  the  old  woman  and 
wagging  his  tail.  Presently  he  came  to  me,  examined  me 
from  all  sides,  and  then  returned  with  friendly  actions  to 
the  old  woman. 

*  *  When  we  were  descending  the  hill  I  heard  some  wonder- 
ful singing,  which  seemed  to  come  from  the  hut.  It  sounded 
like  a  bird,  and  ran : 

0  solitude 
Of  lonely  wood, 
Where  none  intrude, 
Thou  bringest  good 
For  every  mood, 
0  solitude! 

'  *  These  few  words  were  repeated  over  and  over ;  if  I 
were  to  attempt  to  describe  the  effect,  it  was  somewhat 
like  the  blended  notes  of  a  bugle  and  a  shaAvm. 

' '  My  curiosity  was  strained  to  the  utmost.  Without 
waiting  for  the  old  woman's  invitation,  I  walked  into  the 
hut  with  her.  Dusk  had  already  set  in.  Everything  was  in 
proper  order;  a  few  goblets  stood  in  a  cupboard,  some 
strange-looking  vessels  lay  on  a  table,  and  a  bird  was  hang- 
ing in  a  small,  shiny  cage  by  the  window.  And  he,  indeed, 
it  was  that  I  had  heard  singing.  The  old  woman  gasped 
and  coughed,  seemingly  as  if  she  would  never  get  over  it. 
Now  she  stroked  the  little  dog,  now  talked  to  the  bird,  which 
answered  her  only  with  its  usual  words.  Furthermore,  she 
acted  in  no  way  as  if  I  were  present.  While  I  was  thus 
watching  her,  a  series  of  shudders  passed  through  my  body; 
for  her  face  was  constantly  twitching  and  her  head  shak- 
ing, as  if  with  age,  and  in  such  a  way  that  it  was  impossible 
for  one  to  tell  how  she  really  looked. 

'  *  When  she  finally  ceased  coughing  she  lighted  a  candle, 
set  a  very  small  table,  and  laid  the  supper  on  it.  Then  she 
looked  around  at  me  and  told  me  to  take  one  of  the  woven 


FAIR  ECKBERT  259 

cane  chairs.  I  sat  down  directly  opposite  her,  and  the 
candle  stood  between  us.  She  folded  her  bony  hands  and 
prayed  aloud,  all  the  time  twitching  her  face  in  such  a 
way  that  it  almost  made  me  laugh.  I  was  very  careful, 
however,  not  to  do  anything  to  make  her  angry. 

*' After  supper  she  prayed  again,  and  then  showed  me  to 
a  bed  in  a  tiny  little  side-room  —  she  herself  slept  in  the 
main  room.  I  did  not  stay  awake  long,  for  I  was  half  dazed. 
I  woke  up  several  times  during  the  night,  however,  and 
heard  the  old  woman  coughing  and  talking  to  the  dog,  and 
occasionally  I  heard  the  bird,  which  seemed  to  be  dreaming 
and  sang  only  a  few  isolated  words  of  its  song.  These  stray 
notes,  united  with  the  rustling  of  the  birches  directly  in 
front  of  my  window,  and  also  with  the  song  of  the  far-off 
nightingale,  made  such  a  strange  combination  that  I  felt 
all  the  time,  not  as  if  I  were  awake,  but  as  if  I  were  lapsing 
into  another,  still  stranger,  dream. 

*'  In  the  morning  the  old  woman  woke  me  up  and  soon 
afterward  gave  me  some  work  to  do;  I  had,  namely,  to 
spin,  and  I  soon  learned  how  to  do  it ;  in  addition  I  had  to 
take  care  of  the  dog  and  the  bird.  I  was  not  long  in  getting 
acquainted  with  the  housekeeping,  and  came  to  know  all  the 
objects  around.  I  now  began  to  feel  that  everything  Avas 
as  it  should  be ;  I  no  longer  thought  that  there  was  anything 
strange  about  the  old  woman,  or  romantic  about  the  loca- 
tion of  her  home,  or  that  the  bird  was  in  any  way  ex- 
traordinary. To  be  sure,  I  was  all  the  time  struck  by  his 
beauty;  for  his  feathers  displayed  every  possible  color, 
varying  from  a  most  beautiful  light  blue  to  a  glowing  red, 
and  when  he  sang  he  puffed  himself  out  proudly,  so  that 
his  feathers  shone  even  more  gorgeously. 

* '  The  old  woman  often  went  out  and  did  not  return  until 
evening.  Then  I  would  go  with  the  dog  to  meet  her  and 
she  would  call  me  child  and  daughter.  Finally  I  came  to 
like  her  heartily;  for  our  minds,  especially  in  childhood, 
quickly  accustom  themselves  to  everything.  In  the  evening 
hours  she  taught  me  to  read;  I  soon  learned  the  art,  and 


260  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

afterward  it  was  a  source  of  endless  pleasure  to  me  in  my 
solitude,  for  she  had  a  few  old,  hand-written  books  which 
contained  wonderful  stories. 

**  The  memory  of  the  life  I  led  at  that  time  still  gives  me 
a  strange  feeling  even  now.  I  was  never  visited  by  any 
human  being,  and  felt  at  home  only  in  that  little  family 
circle ;  for  the  dog  and  the  bird  made  the  same  impression 
on  me  which  ordinarily  only  old  and  intimate  friends  create. 
Often  as  I  used  it  at  that  time,  I  have  never  been  able  to 
recall  the  dog's  strange  name. 

"  In  this  way  I  had  lived  with  the  old  woman  for  four 
years,  and  I  must  have  been  at  any  rate  about  twelve  years 
old  when  she  finally  began  to  grow  more  confidential  and 
revealed  a  secret  to  me.  It  was  this:  every  day  the  bird 
laid  one  egg,  and  in  this  egg  there  was  always  a  pearl  or  a 
gem.  I  had  already  noticed  that  she  often  did  something 
in  the  cage  secretly,  but  had  never  particularly  concerned 
myself  about  it.  She  now  charged  me  with  the  task  of 
taking  out  these  eggs  during  her  absence,  and  of  carefully 
preserving  them  in  the  vessels.  She  would  leave  food  for 
me  and  stay  away  quite  a  long  time  —  weeks  and  months. 
My  little  spinning-wheel  hummed,  the  dog  barked,  the 
wonderful  bird  sang,  and  meanwhile  everything  was  so 
quiet  in  the  region  round  about  that  I  cannot  recall  a  single 
high  wind  or  a  thunder-storm  during  the  entire  time.  Not 
a  human  being  strayed  thither,  not  a  wild  animal  came  near 
our  habitation.  I  was  happy,  and  sang  and  worked  away 
from  one  day  to  the  next.  Man  would  perhaps  be  right 
happy  if  he  could  thus  spend  his  entire  life,  unseen  by 
others. 

*'  From  the  little  reading  that  I  did  I  formed  quite 
wonderful  impressions  of  the  world  and  of  mankind.  They 
were  all  drawn  from  myself  and  the  company  I  lived  in; 
thus,  if  whimsical  people  were  spoken  of  I  could  not  imagine 
them  other  than  the  little  dog,  beautiful  women  always 
looked  like  the  bird,  and  all  old  women  were  as  my  wonder- 
ful old  friend.    I  had  also  read  a  little  about  love,  and  in 


FAIR  ECKBERT  261 

my  imagination  I  figured  in  strange  tales.  I  formed  a 
mental  picture  of  the  most  beautiful  knight  in  the  world  and 
adorned  him  with  all  sorts  of  excellences,  without  really 
knowing,  after  all  my  trouble,  what  he  looked  like.  But  I 
could  feel  genuine  pity  for  myself  if  he  did  not  return  my 
love,  and  then  I  would  make  long,  emotional  speeches  to 
him,  sometimes  aloud,  in  order  to  win  him.  You  smile  — 
we  are  all  now  past  this  period  of  youth. 

* '  I  now  liked  it  rather  better  when  I  was  alone,  for  I 
was  then  myself  mistress  of  the  house.  The  dog  was  very 
fond  of  me  and  did  everything  I  wanted  him  to  do,  the  bird 
answered  all  my  questions  mth  his  song,  my  wheel  was 
always  spinning  merrily,  and  so  in  the  bottom  of  my  heart 
I  never  felt  any  desire  for  a  change.  When  the  old  woman 
returned  from  her  wanderings  she  would  praise  my  dili- 
gence, and  say  that  her  household  was  conducted  in  a  much 
more  orderly  manner  since  I  belonged  to  it.  She  was 
delighted  with  my  development  and  my  healthy  look.  In 
short,  she  treated  me  in  every  way  as^  if  I  were  a  daughter. 

*  * '  You  are  a  good  child, '  she  once  said  to  me  in  a  squeaky 
voice.  '  If  you  continue  thus,  it  will  always  go  well  with 
you.  It  never  pays  to  swerve  from  the  right  course  —  the 
penalty  is  sure  to  follow,  though  it  may  be  a  long  time 
coming. '  While  she  was  saying  this  I  did  not  give  a  great 
deal  of  heed  to  it,  for  I  was  very  lively  in  all  my  movements. 
But  in  the  night  it  occurred  to  me  again,  and  I  could  not 
understand  what  she  had  meant  by  it.  I  thought  her  words 
over  carefully  —  I  had  read  about  riches,  and  it  finally 
dawned  on  me  that  her  pearls  and  gems  might  perhaps  be 
something  valuable.  This  idea  presently  became  still 
clearer  to  me  —  but  what  could  she  have  meant  by  the 
right  course?  I  was  still  unable  to  understand  fully  the 
meaning  of  her  words. 

* '  I  was  now  fourteen  years  old.  It  is  indeed  a  mis- 
fortune that  human  beings  acquire  reason,  only  to  lose,  in 
so  doing,  the  innocence  of  their  souls.  In  other  words  I  now 
began  to  realize  the  fact  that  it  depended  only  upon  me  to 


262  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

take  the  bird  and  the  gems  in  the  old  woman's  absence, 
and  go  out  into  the  world  of  which  I  had  read.  At  the 
same  time  it  was  perhaps  possible  that  I  might  meet  my 
wonderfully  beautiful  knight,  who  still  held  a  place  in  my 
imagination. 

"At  first  this  thought  went  no  further  than  any  other, 
but  when  I  would  sit  there  spinning  so  constantly,  it  always 
oame  back  against  my  will  and  I  became  so  deeply 
absorbed  in  it  that  I  already  saw  myself  dressed  up  and 
surrounded  by  knights  and  princes.  And  whenever  I  would 
thus  lose  myself,  I  easily  grew  very  sad  when  I  glanced  up 
and  found  myself  in  my  little,  narrow  home.  When  I  was 
about  my  business,  the  old  woman  paid  no  further  attention 
to  me. 

'  *  One  day  my  hostess  went  away  again  and  told  me  that 
she  would  be  gone  longer  this  time  than  usual  —  I  should 
pay  strict  attention  to  everything,  and  not  let  the  time  drag 
on  my  hands.  I  took  leave  of  her  with  a  certain  uneasiness, 
for  I  somehow  felt  that  I  should  never  see  her  again.  I 
looked  after  her  for  a  long  time,  and  did  not  myself  know 
why  I  was  so  uneasy;  it  seemed  almost  as  if  my  intention 
were  already  standing  before  me,  without  my  being  dis- 
tinctly conscious  of  it. 

' '  I  had  never  taken  such  diligent  care  of  the  dog  and  the 
bird  before  —  they  lay  closer  to  my  heart  than  ever  now. 
The  old  woman  had  been  away  several  days  when  I  arose 
with  the  firm  purpose  of  abandoning  the  hut  with  the  bird 
and  going  out  into  the  so-called  world.  My  mind  was  nar- 
row and  limited ;  I  wanted  again  to  remain  there,  and  yet 
the  thought  was  repugnant  to  me.  A  strange  conflict  took 
place  in  my  soul  —  it  was  as  if  two  contentious  spirits  were 
struggling  within  me.  One  moment  the  quiet  solitude  would 
seem  so  beautiful  to  me,  and  then  again  I  would  be  charmed 
by  the  vision  of  a  new  world  with  its  manifold  wonders. 

' '  I  did  not  know  what  to  do  with  myself.  The  dog  was 
continually  dancing  around  me  with  friendly  advances,  the 


FAIR  ECKBERT  263 

sunlight  was  spread  out  cheerfully  over  the  fields,  and  the 
green  birch-trees  shone  brightly.  I  had  a  feeling  as  if  I  had 
something  to  do  requiring  haste.  Accordingly,  I  caught  the 
little  dog,  tied  him  fast  in  the  room,  and  took  the  cage,  with 
the  bird  in  it,  under  my  arm.  The  dog  cringed  and  whined 
over  this  unusual  treatment ;  he  looked  at  me  with  implor- 
ing eyes  but  I  was  afraid  to  take  him  with  me.  I  also  took 
one  of  the  vessels,  which  was  filled  with  gems,  and  concealed 
it  about  me.  The  others  I  left  there.  The  bird  twisted  its 
head  around  in  a  singular  manner  when  I  walked  out  of  the 
door  with  him ;  the  dog  strained  hard  to  follow  me,  but  was 
obliged  to  remain  behind. 

'*  I  avoided  the  road  leading  toward  the  w^ld  rocks,  and 
walked  in  the  opposite  direction.  The  dog  continued  to  bark 
and  whine,  and  I  was  deeply  touched  by  it.  Several  times 
the  bird  started  to  sing,  but,  as  he  was  being  carried,  it  was 
necessarily  rather  difficult  for  him.  As  I  walked  along  the 
barking  grew  fainter  and  fainter,  and,  finally,  ceased  alto- 
gether. I  cried  and  was  on  the  point  of  turning  back,  but 
the  longing  to  see  something  new  drove  me  on. 

*'  I  had  already  traversed  mountains  and  several  forests 
when  evening  came,  and  I  was  obliged  to  pass  the  night  in  a 
village.  I  was  very  timid  Avhen  I  entered  the  public-house ; 
they  showed  me  to  a  room  and  a  bed,  and  I  slept  fairly  well, 
except  that  I  dreamt  of  the  old  woman,  who  was  threatening 
me. 

''  My  journey  was  rather  monotonous;  but  the  further  I 
went  the  more  the  picture  of  the  old  woman  and  the  little 
dog  worried  me.  I  thought  how  he  would  probably  starve  to 
death  without  my  help,  and  in  the  forest  I  often  thought  I 
would  suddenly  meet  the  old  woman.  Thus,  crying  and 
sighing,  I  wandered  along,  and  as  often  as  I  rested  and  put 
the  cage  on  the  ground,  the  bird  sang  its  wonderful  song, 
and  reminded  me  vividly  of  the  beautiful  home  I  had  de- 
serted. As  human  nature  is  prone  to  forget,  I  now  thought 
that  the  journey  I  had  made  as  a  child  was  not  as  dismal 


264  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

as  the  one  I  was  now  making,  and  I  wished  that  I  were  back 
in  the  same  situation. 

'  *  I  had  sold  a  few  gems,  and  now,  after  wandering  many 
days,  I  arrived  in  a  village.  Even  as  I  was  entering  it,  a 
strange  feeling  came  over  me  —  I  was  frightened  and  did 
not  know  why.  But  I  soon  discovered  why  —  it  was  the 
very  same  village  in  which  I  was  born.  How  astonished  I 
was!  How  the  tears  of  joy  ran  down  my  cheeks  as  a  thou- 
sand strange  memories  came  back  to  me!  There  were  a 
great  many  changes;  new  houses  had  been  built,  others, 
which  had  then  only  recently  been  erected,  Avere  now  in  a 
state  of  dilapidation.  I  came  across  places  where  there  had 
been  a  fire.  Everything  was  a  great  deal  smaller  and  more 
crowded  than  I  had  expected.  I  took  infinite  delight  in  the 
thought  of  seeing  my  parents  again  after  so  many  years. 
I  found  the  little  house  and  the  well-known  threshold  —  the 
handle  on  the  door  was  just  as  it  used  to  be.  I  felt  as  if  I 
had  only  yesterday  left  it  ajar.  My  heart  throbbed  vehe- 
mently. I  quickly  opened  the  door  —  but  faces  entirely 
strange  to  me  stared  at  me  from  around  the  room.  I  in- 
quired after  the  shepherd,  Martin,  and  was  told  that  both 
he  and  his  wife  had  died  three  years  before.  I  hurried  out 
and,  crying  aloud,  left  the  village. 

*'  I  had  looked  forward  with  such  pleasure  to  surprising 
them  with  my  riches,  and  as  a  result  of  a  remarkable  acci- 
dent the  dream  of  my  childhood  had  really  come  true.  And 
now  it  was  all  in  vain  —  they  could  no  longer  rejoice  with 
me  —  the  fondest  hope  of  my  life  was  lost  to  me  forever. 

**  I  rented  a  small  house  with  a  garden  in  a  pleasant  city, 
and  engaged  a  waiting-maid.  The  world  did  not  appear  to 
be  such  a  wonderful  place  as  I  had  expected,  but  the  old 
woman  and  my  former  home  dropped  more  and  more  out 
of  my  memory,  so  that,  upon  the  whole,  I  lived  quite 
contentedly. 

* '  The  bird  had  not  sung  for  a  long  time,  so  that  I  was  not 
a  little  frightened  one  night  when  he  suddenly  began  again. 
The  song  he  sang,  however,  was  different  —  it  was : 


FAIR  ECKBERT  2t35 

0  solitude 
Of  lonely  wood, 
A  vanished  good 
In  dreams  pursued, 
In  absence  rued, 
0  solitude! 

' '  I  could  not  sleep  through  the  night ;  everything  came 
back  to  my  mind,  and  I  felt  more  than  ever  that  I  had  done 
wrong.  When  I  got  up  the  sight  of  the  bird  was  positively 
repugnant  to  me;  he  was  constantly  staring  at  me,  and 
his  presence  worried  me.  He  never  ceased  singing  now,  and 
sang  more  loudly  and  shrilly  than  he  used  to.  The  more  I 
looked  at  him  the  more  uneasiness  I  felt.  Finally,  I  opened 
the  cage,  stuck  my  hand  in,  seized  him  by  the  neck  and 
squeezed  my  fingers  together  forcibly.  He  looked  at  me 
imploringly,  and  I  relaxed  my  grip  —  but  he  was  already 
dead.    I  buried  him  in  the  garden. 

''And  now  I  was  often  seized  with  fear  of  my  waiting- 
maid.  My  o^\Ti  past  came  back  to  me,  and  I  thought  that 
she  too  might  rob  me  some  day,  or  perhaps  even  murder 
me.  For  a  long  time  I  had  kno^^^l  a  young  knight  whom  I 
liked  very  much  —  I  gave  him  my  hand,  and  with  that,  Mr. 
Walther,  my  story  ends." 

' '  You  should  have  seen  her  then, ' '  broke  in  Eckbert 
quickly.  ''  Her  youth,  her  innocence,  her  beauty  —  and 
what  an  incomprehensible  charm  her  solitary  breeding  had 
given  her!  To  me  she  seemed  like  a  wonder,  and  I  loved 
her  inexpressibly.  I  had  no  property,  but  with  the  help  of 
her  love  I  attained  my  present  condition  of  comfortable 
prosperity.  We  moved  to  this  place,  and  our  union  thus 
far  has  never  brought  us  a  single  moment  of  remorse." 

"  But  while  I  have  been  chattering,"  began  Bertha 
again,  "  the  night  has  grown  late.    Let  us  go  to  bed." 

She  rose  to  go  to  her  room.  Walther  kissed  her  hand  and 
wished  her  a  good-night,  adding : 

*'  Noble  woman,  I  thank  you.  I  can  readily  imagine  you 
with  the  strange  bird,  and  how  you  fed  the  little  Strohmi. ' ' 


266  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

Without  answering  she  left  the  room,  Walther  also  lay 
doAvn  to  sleep,  but  Eckbert  continued  to  walk  up  and  down 
the  room. 

''Aren't  human  beings  fools?  "  he  finally  asked  himself. 
''  I  myself  induced  my  wife  to  tell  her  storj%  and  now  I 
regret  this  confidence!  Will  he  not  perhaps  misuse  it? 
Will  he  not  impart  it  to  others?  Will  he  not  perhaps  —  for 
it  is  human  nature  —  come  to  feel  a  miserable  longing  for 
our  gems  and  devise  plans  to  get  them  and  dissemble  his 
nature?  " 

It  occurred  to  him  that  Walther  had  not  taken  leave  of 
him  as  cordially  as  would  perhaps  have  been  natural  after 
so  confidential  a  talk.  When  the  soul  is  once  led  to  suspect, 
it  finds  confirmations  of  its  suspicions  in  every  little  thing. 
Then  again  Eckbert  reproached  himself  for  his  ignoble  dis- 
trust of  his  loyal  friend,  but  he  was  unable  to  get  the  notion 
entirely  out  of  his  mind.  All  night  long  he  tossed  about 
with  these  thoughts  and  slept  but  little. 

Bertha  was  sick  and  could  not  appear  for  breakfast. 
Walther  seemed  little  concerned  about  it,  and  furthermore 
he  left  the  knight  in  a  rather  indifferent  manner.  Eckbert 
could  not  understand  his  conduct.  He  went  in  to  see  his 
wife  —  she  lay  in  a  severe  fever  and  said  that  her  story  the 
night  before  must  have  excited  her  in  this  manner. 

After  that  evening  Walther  visited  his  friend's  castle  but 
rarely,  and  even  when  he  did  come  he  went  away  again 
after  a  few  trivial  words.  Eckbert  was  exceedingly 
troubled  by  this  behavior;  to  be  sure,  he  tried  not  to  let 
either  Bertha  or  Walther  notice  it,  but  both  of  them  must 
surely  have  been  aware  of  his  inward  uneasiness. 

Bertha's  sickness  grew  worse  and  worse.  The  doctor 
shook  his  head  —  the  color  in  her  cheeks  had  disappeared, 
and  her  eyes  became  more  and  more  brilliant. 

One  morning  she  summoned  her  husband  to  her  bedside 
and  told  the  maids  to  withdraw. 

"Dear  husband,"  she  began,  "I  must  disclose  to  you 
something  which  has  almost  deprived  me  of  my  reason  and 


FAIR  ECKBERT  267 

has  ruined  my  health,  however  trivial  it  may  seem  to  be. 
Often  as  I  have  told  my  story  to  you,  you  will  remember 
that  I  have  never  been  able,  despite  all  the  efforts  I  have 
made,  to  recall  the  name  of  the  little  dog  with  which  I  lived 
so  long.  That  evening  when  I  told  the  story  to  Walther 
he  suddenly  said  to  me  when  we  separated :  '  I  can  readily 
imagine  how  you  fed  the  little  Strohmi. '  Was  that  an  acci- 
dent? Did  he  guess  the  name,  or  did  he  mention  it  design- 
edly? And  what,  then,  is  this  man's  connection  with  my 
lot?  The  idea  has  occurred  to  me  now  and  then  that  I 
merely  imagine  this  accident  —  but  it  is  certain,  only  too 
certain.  It  sent  a  feeling  of  horror  through  me  to  have  a 
strange  person  like  that  assist  my  memory.  What  do  you 
say,  Eckbert?" 

Eckbert  looked  at  his  suffering  wife  with  deep  tender- 
ness. He  kept  silent,  but  was  meditating.  Then  he  said  a 
few  comforting  words  to  her  and  left  the  room.  In  an 
isolated  room  he  walked  back  and  forth  with  indescribable 
restlessness  —  Walther  for  many  years  had  been  his  sole 
male  comrade,  and  yet  this  man  was  now  the  only  person  in 
the  world  whose  existence  oppressed  and  harassed  him.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  his  heart  would  be  light  and  happy  if 
only  this  one  person  might  be  put  out  of  the  way.  He  took 
down  his  cross-bow  with  a  view  to  distracting  his  thoughts 
by  going  hunting. 

It  was  a  raw  and  stormy  day  in  the  winter ;  deep  snow  lay 
on  the  mountains  and  bent  down  the  branches  of  the  trees. 
He  wandered  about,  with  the  sweat  oozing  from  his  fore- 
head. He  came  across  no  game,  and  that  increased  his 
ill-humor.  Suddenly  he  saw  something  move  in  the  dis- 
tance—  it  was  Walther  gathering  moss  from  the  trees. 
Without  knowing  what  he  was  doing  he  took  aim  —  Walther 
looked  around  and  motioned  to  him  mth  a  threatening  ges- 
ture. But  as  he  did  so  the  arrow  sped,  and  Walther  fell 
headlong. 

Eckbert  felt  relieved  and  calm,  and  yet  a  feeling  of  horror 
drove  him  back  to  his  castle.     He  had  a  long  distance  to 


268  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

go,  for  he  had  wandered  far  into  the  forest.  When  he 
arrived  home,  Bertha  had  already  died  —  before  her  death 
she  had  spoken  a  great  deal  about  Walther  and  the  old 
woman. 

For  a  long  time  Eckbert  lived  in  greatest  seclusion.  He 
had  always  been  somewhat  melancholy  because  the  strange 
story  of  his  wife  rather  worried  him;  he  had  always  lived 
in  fear  of  an  unfortunate  event  that  might  take  place,  but 
now  he  was  completely  at  variance  with  himself.  The  mur- 
der of  his  friend  stood  constantly  before  his  eyes  —  he  spent 
his  life  reproaching  himself. 

In  order  to  divert  his  thoughts,  he  occasionally  betook 
himself  to  the  nearest  large  city,  where  he  attended  parties 
and  banquets.  He  wished  to  have  a  friend  to  fill  the 
vacancy  in  his  soul,  and  then  again,  when  he  thought  of 
Walther,  the  very  word  friend  made  him  shudder.  He  was 
convinced  that  he  would  necessarily  be  unhappy  with  all  his 
friends.  He  had  lived  so  long  in  beautiful  harmony  with 
Bertha,  and  Walther 's  friendship  had  made  him  happy  for 
so  many  years,  and  now  both  of  them  had  been  so  suddenly 
taken  from  him  that  his  life  seemed  at  times  more  like  a 
strange  fairy-tale  than  an  actual  mortal  existence. 

A  knight,  Hugo  von  Wolfsberg,  became  attached  to  the 
quiet,  melancholy  Eckbert,  and  seemed  to  cherish  a  genuine 
fondness  for  him.  Eckbert  was  strangely  surprised;  he 
met  the  knight's  friendly  advances  more  quickly  than  the 
other  expected.  They  were  now  frequently  together,  the 
stranger  did  Eckbert  all  sorts  of  favors,  scarcely  ever  did 
either  of  them  ride  out  without  the  other,  they  met  each 
other  at  all  the  parties  —  in  short,  they  seemed  to  be 
inseparable. 

Eckbert  was,  nevertheless,  happy  only  for  short  moments 
at  a  time,  for  he  felt  quite  sure  that  Hugo  loved  him  only 
by  mistake  —  he  did  not  know  him,  nor  his  history,  and  he 
felt  the  same  impulse  again  to  unfold  his  soul  to  him  in 
order  to  ascertain  for  sure  how  staunch  a  friend  Hugo  was. 
Then  again  doubts  and  the  fear  of  being  detested  restrained 


FAIR  ECKBERT  269 

him.  There  were  many  hours  in  which  he  felt  so  convinced 
of  his  own  unworthiness  as  to  believe  that  no  person,  who 
knew  him  at  all  intimately,  could  hold  him  worthy  of 
esteem.  But  he  could  not  resist  the  impulse ;  in  the  course 
of  a  long  walk  he  revealed  his  entire  history  to  his  friend, 
and  asked  him  if  he  could  possibly  love  a  murderer.  Hugo 
was  touched  and  tried  to  comfort  him.  Eckbert  followed 
him  back  to  the  city  with  a  lighter  heart. 

However,  it  seemed  to  be  his  damnation  that  his  suspi- 
cions should  awaken  just  at  the  time  when  he  grew  con- 
fidential ;  for  they  had  no  more  than  entered  the  hall  when 
the  glow  of  the  many  lights  revealed  an  expression  in  his 
friend's  features  which  he  did  not  like.  He  thought  he 
detected  a  malicious  smile,  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  he, 
Hugo,  said  very  little  to  him,  that  he  talked  a  great  deal 
with  the  other  people  present,  and  seemed  to  pay  absolutely 
no  attention  to  him.  There  was  an  old  knight  in  the  com- 
pany who  had  always  shown  himself  as  Eckbert 's  rival, 
and  had  often  inquired  in  a  peculiar  way  about  his  riches 
and  his  wife.  Hugo  now  approached  this  man,  and  they 
talked  together  a  long  time  secretly,  while  every  now  and 
then  they  glanced  toward  Eckbert.  He,  Eckbert,  saw  in 
this  a  confirmation  of  his  suspicions;  he  believed  that  he 
had  been  betrayed,  and  a  terrible  rage  overcame  him.  As 
he  continued  to  stare  in  that  direction,  he  suddenly  saw 
Walther's  head,  all  his  features,  and  his  entire  figure,  so 
familiar  to  him.  Still  looking,  he  became  convinced  that 
it  was  nobody  but  Walther  himself  who  was  talking  with 
the  old  man.  His  terror  was  indescribable;  completely 
beside  himself,  he  rushed  out,  left  the  city  that  night,  and, 
after  losing  his  way  many  times,  returned  to  his  castle. 

Like  a  restless  spirit  he  hurried  from  room  to  room.  No 
thought  could  he  hold  fast;  the  pictures  in  his  mind  grew 
more  and  more  terrible,  and  he  did  not  sleep  a  wink.  The 
idea  often  occurred  to  him  that  he  was  crazy  and  that  all 
these  notions  were  merely  the  product  of  his  own  imagi- 
nation.    Then  again  he  remembered  Walther's  features, 


270  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

aud  it  was  all  more  puzzling  to  him  than  ever.  He  resolved 
to  go  on  a  journey  in  order  to  compose  his  thoughts;  he 
had  long  since  given  up  the  idea  of  a  friend  and  the  wish 
for  a  companion. 

Without  any  definite  destination  in  view,  he  set  out,  nor 
did  he  pay  much  attention  to  the  country  that  lay  before 
him.  After  he  had  trotted  along  several  days  on  his  horse, 
he  suddenly  lost  his  way  in  a  maze  of  rocks,  from  which  he 
was  unable  to  discover  any  egress.  Finally  he  met  an  old 
peasant  who  showed  him  a  way  out,  leading  past  a  water- 
fall. He  started  to  give  him  a  few  coins  by  way  of  thanks, 
but  the  peasant  refused  them. 

"  What  can  it  mean?  "  he  said  to  himself.  ''  I  could 
easily  imagine  that  that  man  was  no  other  than  Walther. ' ' 
He  looked  back  once  more  —  it  was  indeed  no  one  else  but 
Walther! 

Eckbert  spurred  on  his  horse  as  fast  as  it  could  run  — 
through  meadows  and  forests,  until,  completely  exhausted, 
it  collapsed  beneath  him.  Unconcerned,  he  continued  his 
journey  on  foot. 

Dreamily  he  ascended  a  hill.  There  he  seemed  to  hear  a 
dog  barking  cheerily  close  by  —  birch  trees  rustled  abort 
him  —  he  heard  the  notes  of  a  wonderful  song: 

0  solitude 

Of  lonely  wood, 

Thou  ehiefest  good, 

Where  thou  dost  brood 

Is  joy  renewed, 

O  solitude! 

Now  it  was  all  up  with  Eckbert 's  consciousness  and  his 
senses ;  he  could  not  solve  the  mystery  whether  he  was  now 
dreaming  or  had  formerly  dreamt  of  a  woman  Bertha.  The 
most  marvelous  was  confused  with  the  most  ordinary  — 
the  world  around  him  was  bewitched  —  no  thought,  no 
memory  was  under  his  control. 

An  old  crook-backed  woman  with  a  cane  came  creeping 
up  the  hill,  coughing. 


FAIR  ECKBERT  271 

*'Are  you  bringing  my  bird,  my  pearls,  my  dog?  "  she 
cried  out  to  him.  * '  Look  —  wrong  punishes  itself.  I  and 
no  other  was  your  friend  Walther,  your  Hugo. ' ' 

* '  God  in  Heaven !  ' '  said  Eckbert  softly  to  himself.  ' '  In 
what  terrible  solitude  I  have  spent  my  life." 

"And  Bertha  was  your  sister." 

Eckbert  fell  to  the  ground. 

"  Why  did  she  desert  me  so  deceitfully?  Otherwise 
everything  would  have  ended  beautifully  —  her  probation- 
time  was  already  over.  She  was  the  daughter  of  a  knight, 
who  had  a  shepherd  bring  her  up  —  the  daughter  of  your 
father." 

"  Why  have  I  always  had  a  presentiment  of  these  facts?  " 
cried  Eckbert. 

* '  Because  in  your  early  youth  you  heard  your  father  tell 
of  them.  On  his  wife 's  account  he  could  not  bring  up  this 
daughter  himself,  for  she  was  the  child  of  another  woman." 

Eckbert  was  delirious  as  he  breathed  his  last ;  dazed  and 
confused  he  heard  the  old  woman  talking,  the  dog  barking, 
and  the  bird  repeating  its  song. 


THE  ELVES*  (1811) 

By  LuDwiG  TiECK 

TRANSLATED  BY  FREDERIC  H.  HEDGE 

HERE  is  our  little  Mary!  "  asked  the  father. 
*  *  She  is  playing  out  upon  the  green  there, 
with  our  neighbor's  boy,"  replied  the  mother. 
*'  I  wish  they  may  not  run  away  and 
lose  themselves,"  said  he;  **  they  are  so 
heedless." 

The  mother  looked  for  the  little  ones,  and  brought  them 
their  evening  luncheon.  *'  It  is  warm,"  said  the  boy;  and 
Mary  eagerly  reached  out  for  the  red  cherries. 

**  Have  a  care,  children,"  said  the  mother,  "  and  do  not 
run  too  far  from  home,  or  into  the  wood;  father  and  I  are 
going  to  the  fields." 

Little  Andrew  answered :  *  *  Never  fear,  the  wood 
frightens  us;  we  shall  sit  here  by  the  house,  where  there 
are  people  near  us." 

The  mother  went  in,  and  soon  came  out  again  with  her 
husband.  They  locked  the  door,  and  turned  toward  the 
fields  to  look  after  their  laborers  and  see  their  hay- 
harvest  in  tlie  meadow.  Their  house  lay  upon  a  little  green 
height,  encircled  by  a  pretty  ring  of  paling,  which  likewise 
inclosed  their  fruit  and  flower-garden.  The  hamlet 
stretched  somewhat  deeper  down,  and  on  the  other  side  lay 
the  castle  of  the  Count.  Martin  rented  the  large  farm  from 
this  nobleman,  and  was  living  in  contentment  with  his  wife 
and  only  child;  for  he  yearly  saved  some  money,  and  had 
the  prospect  of  becoming  a  man  of  substance  by  his  in- 
dustry, for  the  ground  was  productive,  and  the  Count  not 
illiberal. 


Permiasion  Porter  &  Coates,  Philadelphia. 


THE  ELVES  273 

As  he  walked  with  his  wife  to  the  fields,  he  gazed  cheer- 
fully round,  and  said :  ' '  What  a  different  look  this  quarter 
has,  Brigitta,  from  the  place  we  lived  in  formerly!  Here 
it  is  all  so  green ;  the  whole  village  is  bedecked  with  thick- 
spreading  fruit-trees ;  the  ground  is  full  of  beautiful  herbs 
and  flowers;  all  the  houses  are  cheerful  and  cleanly,  the 
inhabitants  are  at  their  ease:  nay,  I  could  almost  fancy 
that  the  woods  are  greener  here  than  elsewhere,  and  the 
sky  bluer ;  and,  so  far  as  the  eye  can  reach,  you  have  pleas- 
ure and  delight  in  beholding  the  bountiful  Earth. ' ' 

**And  whenever  you  cross  the  stream,"  said  Brigitta, 
"  you  are,  as  it  were,  in  another  world,  all  is  so  dreary  and 
withered ;  but  every  traveler  declares  that  our  village  is  the 
fairest  in  the  country,  far  or  near. ' ' 

''All  but  that  fir-ground,"  said  her  husband;  ''  do  but 
look  back  to  it,  how  dark  and  dismal  that  solitary  spot  is 
lying  in  the  gay  scene  —  the  dingy  fir-trees,  with  the  smoky 
huts  behind  them,  the  ruined  stalls,  the  brook  flowing  past 
with  a  sluggish  melancholy." 

* '  It  is  true, ' '  replied  Brigitta ;  "  if  you  but  approach 
that  spot,  you  grow  disconsolate  and  sad,  you  know  not  why. 
What  sort  of  people  can  they  be  that  live  there,  and  keep 
themselves  so  separate  from  the  rest  of  us,  as  if  they  had 
an  evil  conscience?  " 

'  *  A  miserable  crew, ' '  replied  the  young  farmer ;  ' '  gip- 
sies, seemingly,  that  steal  and  cheat  in  other  quarters,  and 
have  their  hoard  and  hiding-place  here.  I  wonder  only  that 
his  lordship  suffers  them. ' ' 

'*  Who  knows,"  said  the  wife,  with  an  accent  of  pity, 
* '  but  perhaps  they  may  be  poor  people,  wishing,  out  of 
shame,  to  conceal  their  poverty;  for,  after  all,  no  one  can 
say  aught  ill  of  them;  the  only  thing  is,  that  they  do  not 
go  to  church,  and  none  knows  how  they  live ;  for  the  little 
garden,  which  indeed  seems  altogether  waste,  cannot  pos- 
sibly support  them ;  and  fields  they  have  none. ' ' 

* '  God  knows, ' '  said  Martin,  as  they  went  along,  ' '  what 
trade  they  follow;  no  mortal  comes  to  them;  for  the  place 

Vol.  IV  — 18 


274  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

they  live  in  is  as  if  bewitched  and  excommunicated,  so  that 
even  our  wildest  fellows  will  not  venture  into  it. ' ' 

Such  conversation  they  pursued  while  walking  to  the 
fields.  That  gloomy  spot  they  spoke  of  lay  apart  from  the 
hamlet.  In  a  dell,  begirt  with  firs,  you  might  behold  a  hut 
and  various  dilapidated  farm-houses;  rarely  was  smoke  seen 
to  mount  from  it,  still  more  rarely  did  men  appear  there; 
though  at  times  curious  people,  venturing  somewhat  nearer, 
had  perceived  upon  the  bench  before  the  hut  some  hideous 
women,  in  ragged  clothes,  dandling  in  their  arms  some  chil- 
dren equally  dirty  and  ill-favored ;  black  dogs  were  running 
up  and  down  upon  the  boundary;  and,  at  eventide,  a  man 
of  monstrous  size  was  seen  to  cross  the  foot-bridge  of  the 
brook,  and  disappear  in  the  hut ;  then,  in  the  darkness,  vari- 
ous shapes  were  observed,  moving  like  shadows  round  an 
open  fire.  This  piece  of  ground,  the  firs,  and  the  ruined 
hut,  formed  in  truth  a  strange  contrast  with  the  bright 
green  landscape,  the  white  houses  of  the  hamlet,  and  the 
stately  new-built  castle. 

The  two  little  ones  had  now  eaten  their  fruit;  it  came 
into  their  heads  to  run  races;  and  the  little  nimble  Mary 
always  got  the  start  of  the  less  active  Andrew.  "  It  is  not 
fair, ' '  cried  Andrew  at  last ;  "  let  us  try  it  for  some  length, 
then  we  shall  see  who  wins." 

* '  As  thou  wilt, ' '  said  Mary ;  ' '  only  to  the  brook  we  must 
not  run." 

' '  No, ' '  said  Andrew ;  ' '  but  there,  on  the  hill,  stands  the 
large  pear-tree,  a  quarter  of  a  mile  from  this.  I  shall  run 
by  the  left,  round  past  the  fir-ground ;  thou  canst  try  it  by 
the  right,  over  the  fields ;  so  we  do  not  meet  till  we  get  up, 
and  then  we  shall  see  which  of  us  is  the  swifter." 

**  Done,"  cried  Mary,  and  began  to  run;  '^  for  we  shall 
not  interfere  with  each  other  by  the  way,  and  my  father 
says  it  is  as  far  to  the  hill  by  that  side  of  the  gipsies '  house 
as  by  this. ' ' 

Andrew  had  already  started,  and  Mary,  turning  to  the 
right,  could  no  longer  see  him.     * '  It  is  very  silly, ' '  said  she 


THE  ELVES  275 

to  herself;  "  I  have  only  to  take  heart,  and  run  along  the 
bridge,  past  the  hut,  and  through  the  yard,  and  I  shall  cer- 
tainly be  first."  She  was  already  standing  by  the  brook 
and  the  clump  of  firs.  * '  Shall  I  ?  No ;  it  is  too  frightful, ' ' 
said  she.  A  little  white  dog  was  standing  on  the  farther 
side,  and  barking  with  might  and  main.  In  her  terror, 
Mary  thought  the  dog  some  monster,  and  sprang  back. 
' '  Fie !  fie !  "  said  she,  ' '  the  dolt  is  gone  half  way  by  this 
time,  while  I  stand  here  considering. ' '  The  little  dog  kept 
barking,  and,,  as  she  looked  at  it  more  narrowly,  it  seemed 
no  longer  frightful,  but,  on  the  contrary,  quite  pretty;  it 
had  a  red  collar  round  its  neck,  with  a  glittering  bell ;  and 
as  it  raised  its  head,  and  shook  itself  in  barking,  the  little 
bell  sounded  with  the  finest  tinkle.  ' '  Well,  I  must  risk  it !  " 
cried  she :  *  *  I  will  run  for  life ;  quick,  quick,  I  am  through ; 
certainly  to  Heaven,  they  cannot  eat  me  up  alive  in  half  a 
minute !  ' '  And  with  this,  the  gay,  courageous  little  Mary 
sprang  along  the  foot-bridge;  passed  the  dog,  which  ceased 
its  barking,  and  began  to  fawn  on  her;  and  in  a  moment 
she  was  standing  on  the  other  bank,  and  the  black  firs  all 
round  concealed  from  view  her  father's  house  and  the  rest 
of  the  landscape. 

But  what  was  her  astonishment  when  here!  The  love- 
liest, most  variegated  flower-garden  lay  round  her;  tulips, 
roses,  and  lilies,  were  glittering  in  the  fairest  colors ;  blue 
and  gold-red  butterflies  were  wavering  in  the  blossoms; 
cages  of  shining  wire  were  hung  on  the  espaliers,  with 
many-colored  birds  in  them,  singing  beautiful  songs;  and 
children  in  short  white  frocks,  with  flowing  yellow  hair  and 
brilliant  eyes,  were  frolicking  about;  some  playing  with 
lambkins,  some  feeding  the  birds,  or  gathering  flowers  and 
giving  them  to  one  another ;  some,  again,  were  eating  cher- 
ries, grapes,  and  ruddy  apricots.  No  hut  was  to  be  seen; 
but  instead  of  it,  a  large  fair  house,  with  a  brazen  door 
and  lofty  statues,  stood  glancing  in  the  middle  of  the  space. 
Mary  was  confounded  with  surprise,  and  knew  not  what  to 
think ;  but,  not  being  bashful,  she  went  right  up  to  the  first 


276  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

of  the  children,  held  out  her  hand,  and  wished  the  little 
creature  good  evening. 

"Art  thou  come  to  visit  us,  then?  "  asked  the  glittering 
child ;  '  *  I  saw  thee  running,  playing  on  the  other  side,  but 
thou  wert  frightened  for  our  little  dog. ' ' 

"  So  you  are  not  gipsies  and  rogues,"  exclaimed  Mary, 
"  as  Andrew  always  told  me!  He  is  a  stupid  thing,  and 
talks  of  much  he  does  not  understand." 

' '  Stay  with  us, ' '  said  the  strange  little  girl ;  * '  thou  wilt 
like  it  well." 

* '  But  we  are  running  a  race. ' ' 

''  Thou  wilt  find  thy  comrade  soon  enough.  There,  take 
and  eat." 

Mary  ate,  and  found  the  fruit  more  sweet  than  any  she 
had  ever  tasted  in  her  life  before;  and  Andrew,  and  the 
race,  and  the  prohibition  of  her  parents,  were  entirely  for- 
gotten. 

A  stately  woman,  in  a  shining  robe,  came  toward  them, 
and  asked  about  the  stranger  child.  ' '  Fairest  lady, ' '  said 
Mary,  ''  I  came  running  hither  by  chance,  and  now  they 
wish  to  keep  me." 

**  Thou  art  aware,  Zerina,"  said  the  lady,  **  that  she  can 
be  here  for  but  a  little  while;  besides,  thou  shouldst  have 
asked  my  leave." 

''  I  thought,"  said  Zerina,  *'  when  I  saw  her  admitted 
across  the  bridge,  that  I  might  do  it;  we  have  often  seen 
her  running  in  the  fields,  and  thou  thyself  hast  taken 
pleasure  in  her  lively  temper.  She  will  have  to  leave  us 
soon  enough." 

' '  No,  I  will  stay  here, ' '  said  the  little  stranger ;  *  *  for 
here  it  is  so  beautiful,  and  here  I  shall  find  the  prettiest 
playthings,  and  store  of  berries  and  cherries  to  boot.  On 
the  other  side  it  is  not  half  so  grand." 

The  gold-robed  lady  went  away  with  a  smile;  and  many 
of  the  children  now  came  bounding  round  the  happy  Mary 
in  their  mirth,  and  twitched  her,  and  incited  her  to  dance; 


THE  ELVES  277 

others  brought  her  lambs,  or  curious  playthings;  others 
made  music  on  instruments,  and  sang  to  it. 

She  kept,  however,  by  the  playmate  who  had  first  met 
her;  for  Zerina  was  the  kindest  and  loveliest  of  them  all. 
Little  Mary  cried  and  cried  again:  "  I  will  stay  with  you 
forever ;  I  will  stay  with  you,  and  you  shall  be  my  sisters ;  " 
at  which  the  children  all  laughed,  and  embraced  her. 
'*  Now,  we  shall  have  a  royal  sport,"  said  Zerina.  She 
ran  into  the  palace,  and  returned  with  a  little  golden  box, 
in  which  lay  a  quantity  of  seeds,  like  glittering  dust.  She 
lifted  a  few  with  her  little  hand,  and  scattered  some  grains 
on  the  green  earth.  Instantly  the  grass  began  to  move, 
as  in  waves ;  and,  after  a  few  moments,  bright  rose-bushes 
started  from  the  ground,  shot  rapidly  up,  and  budded  all 
at  once,  while  the  sweetest  perfume  filled  the  place.  Mary 
also  took  a  little  of  the  dust,  and,  having  scattered  it,  she 
saw  white  lilies,  and  the  most  variegated  pinks,  pushing  up. 
At  a  signal  from  Zerina,  the  flowers  disappeared,  and 
others  rose  in  their  room.  '  *  Now, ' '  said  Zerina,  ' '  look 
for  something  greater."  She  laid  two  pine-seeds  in  the 
ground,  and  stamped  them  in  sharply  with  her  foot.  Two 
green  bushes  stood  before  them.  "  Grasp  me  fast,"  said 
she ;  and  Mary  threw  her  arms  about  the  slender  form.  She 
felt  herself  borne  upward;  for  the  trees  were  springing 
under  them  with  the  greatest  speed;  the  tall  pines  waved 
to  and  fro,  and  the  two  children  held  each  other  fast  em- 
braced, swinging  this  way  and  that  in  the  red  clouds  of  the 
twilight,  and  kissed  each  other,  while  the  rest  were  climb- 
ing up  and  down  the  trunks  with  quick  dexterity,  pushing 
and  teasing  one  another  with  loud  laughter  when  they  met ; 
if  any  fell  down  in  the  press,  they  flew  through  the  air, 
and  sank  slowly  and  surely  to  the  grounei.  At  length  Mary 
was  beginning  to  be  frightened;  and  the  other  little  child 
sang  a  few  loud  tones,  and  the  trees  again  sank  do'\\Ti  and 
set  them  on  the  ground  as  gently  as  they  had  lifted  them 
before  to  the  clouds. 

They  next  went  through  the  brazen  door  of  the  palace. 


278  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

Here  many  fair  women,  elderly  and  young,  were  sitting  in 
the  round  hall,  partaking  of  the  fairest  fruits  and  listening 
to  glorious  invisible  music.  In  the  vaulting  of  the  ceiling, 
palms,  flowers,  and  groves  stood  painted,  among  w^hich 
little  figures  of  children  were  sporting  and  winding  in  every 
graceful  posture;  and  with  the  tones  of  the  music,  the 
images  altered  and  glowed  w^ith  the  most  burning  colors; 
now  the  blue  and  green  were  sparkling  like  radiant  light, 
now  these  tints  faded  back  in  paleness,  the  purple  flamed 
up,  and  the  gold  took  fire;  and  then  the  naked  children 
seemed  to  be  alive  among  the  flower-garlands,  and  to  draw 
breath  and  emit  it  through  their  ruby-colored  lips ;  so  that 
by  turns  you  could  see  the  glance  of  their  little  white  teeth, 
and  the  lighting  up  of  their  azure  eyes. 

From  the  hall,  a  stair  of  brass  led  down  to  a  subterranean 
chamber.  Here  lay  much  gold  and  silver,  and  precious 
stones  of  every  hue  shone  out  between  them.  Strange  ves- 
sels stood  along  the  walls,  and  all  seemed  filled  with  costly 
things.  The  gold  was  worked  into  many  forms,  and  glit- 
tered with  the  friendliest  red.  Many  little  dwarfs  were 
busied  in  sorting  the  pieces  from  the  heap,  and  putting 
them  in  the  vessels ;  others,  hunch-backed  and  bandy-legged, 
with  long  red  noses,  were  tottering  slowly  along,  half -bent 
to  the  ground,  under  full  sacks,  which  they  bore  as  millers 
do  their  grain,  and,  with  much  panting,  shaking  out  the 
gold-dust  on  the  ground.  Then  they  darted  awkwardly  to 
the  right  and  left,  and  caught  the  rolling  balls  that  were 
likely  to  run  away ;  and  it  happened  now^  and  then  that  one 
in  his  eagerness  upset  another,  so  that  both  fell  heavily 
and  clumsily  to  the  ground.  They  made  angry  faces,  and 
looked  askance,  as  Mary  laughed  at  their  gestures  and  their 
ugliness.  Behind  them  sat  an  old  crumpled  little  man, 
w^hom  Zerina  reverently  greeted;  he  thanked  her  with  a 
grave  inclination  of  his  head.  He  held  a  sceptre  in  his 
hand,  and  wore  a  crown  upon  his  brow,  and  all  the  other 
dwarfs  appeared  to  regard  him  as  their  master  and  obey 
his  nod. 


THE  ELVES  279 

*  *  What  more  wanted  1  ' '  asked  lie,  with  a  surly  voice,  as 
the  children  came  a  little  nearer.  Mary  was  afraid,  and 
did  not  speak ;  but  her  companion  answered,  they  were  only 
come  to  look  about  them  in  the  chamber.  "  Still  your  old 
child-tricks !  ' '  replied  the  dwarf ;  *  *  will  there  never  be 
an  end  to  idleness?  "  With  this,  he  turned  again  to  his 
employment,  kept  his  people  weighing  and  sorting  the 
ingots;  some  he  sent  away  on  errands,  some  he  chid  with 
angry  tones. 

' '  Who  is  the  gentleman  f ' '  asked  Mary. 

'*  Our  Metal-Prince,"  replied  Zerina,  as  they  walked 
along. 

They  seemed  once  more  to  reach  the  open  air,  for  they 
were  standing  by  a  lake,  yet  no  sun  appeared,  and  they  saw 
no  sky  above  their  heads.  A  little  boat  received  them,  and 
Zerina  steered  it  diligently  forward.  It  shot  rapidly  along. 
On  gaining  the  middle  of  the  lake,  little  Mary  saw  that 
multitudes  of  pipes,  channels,  and  brooks  were  spreading 
from  the  little  sea  in  every  direction.  "  These  waters  to 
the  right, ' '  said  Zerina,  * '  flow  beneath  your  garden,  and 
this  is  why  it  blooms  so  freshly ;  by  the  other  side  we  get 
down  into  the  great  stream."  On  a  sudden,  out  of  all  the 
channels,  and  from  every  quarter  of  the  lake,  came  a  crowd 
of  little  children  swimming  up;  some  wore  garlands  of 
sedge  and  water-lily;  some  had  red  stems  of  coral,  others 
were  blowing  on  crooked  shells ;  a  tumultuous  noise  echoed 
merrily  from  the  dark  shores;  among  the  children  might 
be  seen  the  fairest  women  sporting  in  the  waters,  and  often 
several  of  the  children  sprang  about  some  one  of  them,  and 
with  kisses  hung  upon  her  neck  and  shoulders.  All  saluted 
the  stranger;  and  these  steered  onward  through  the  rev- 
elry out  of  the  lake,  into  a  little  river,  which  grew  narrower 
and  narrower.  At  last  the  boat  came  aground.  The 
strangers  took  their  leave,  and  Zerina  knocked  against  the 
cliff.  This  opened  like  a  door,  and  a  female  form,  all  red, 
assisted  them  to  mount.  *'Are  you  all  brisk  here?  "  in- 
quired Zerina.    *'  They  are  just  at  work,"  replied  the  other, 


280  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

'  *  and  happy  as  they  could  wish ;  indeed,  the  heat  is  very 
pleasant." 

They  went  up  a  winding  stair,  and  on  a  sudden  Mary 
found  herself  in  a  most  resplendent  hall,  so  that,  as  she 
entered,  her  eyes  were  dazzled  by  the  radiance.  Flame- 
colored  tapestry  covered  the  walls  with  a  purple  glow;  and 
when  her  eye  had  grown  a  little  used  to  it,  the  stranger 
saw,  to  her  astonishment,  that,  in  the  tapestry,  there  were 
figures  moving  up  and  dow^n  in  dancing  joyfulness,  in  form 
so  beautiful,  and  of  so  fair  proportions,  that  nothing  could 
be  seen  more  graceful ;  their  bodies  were  as  of  red  crystal, 
so  that  it  appeared  as  if  the  blood  were  visible  within  them, 
flowing  and  playing  in  its  courses.  They  smiled  on  the 
stranger,  and  saluted  her  with  various  bows;  but  as  Mary 
was  about  approaching  nearer  them,  Zerina  plucked  her 
sharply  back,  crying :  ' '  Thou  wilt  burn  thyself,  my  little 
Mary,  for  the  whole  of  it  is  fire." 

Mary  felt  the  heat.  ''  Why  do  the  pretty  creatures  not 
come  out, ' '  asked  she,  ' '  and  play  with  us  ?  " 

*'As  thou  livest  in  the  Air,"  replied  the  other,  **  so  are 
they  obliged  to  stay  continually  in  Fire,  and  would  faint 
and  languish  if  they  left  it.  Look  now,  how  glad  they  are, 
how  they  laugh  and  shout;  those  down  below  spread  out 
the  fire-floods  everywhere  beneath  the  earth,  and  thereby 
the  flowers,  and  fruits,  and  wine,  are  made  to  flourish;  these 
red  streams  again  are  to  run  beside  the  brooks  of  water; 
and  thus  the  fiery  creatures  arc  kept  ever  busy  and  glad. 
But  for  thee  it  is  too  hot  here ;  let  us  return  to  the  garden. ' ' 

In  the  garden,  the  scene  had  changed  since  they  left  it. 
The  moonshine  was  lying  on  every  flower;  the  birds  were 
silent,  and  the  children  were  asleep  in  complicated  groups, 
among  the  green  groves.  Mary  and  her  friend,  however, 
did  not  feel  fatigue,  but  walked  about  in  the  warm  summer 
night,  in  abundant  talk,  till  morning. 

When  the  day  dawned,  they  refreshed  themselves  on 
fruit  and  milk,  and  Mary  said :  * '  Suppose  we  go,  by  way 
of  change,  to  the  firs,  and  see  how  things  look  there?  " 


THE  ELVES  281 

**  With  all  my  heart,"  replied  Zerina;  *'  thou  wilt  see  our 
watchmen,  too,  and  they  will  surely  please  thee;  they  are 
standing  up  among  the  trees  on  the  mound."  The  two 
proceeded  through  the  flower-gardens  by  pleasant  groves, 
full  of  nightingales;  then  they  ascended  vine-hills;  and  at 
last,  after  long  following  the  windings  of  a  clear  brook, 
arrived  at  the  firs  and  the  height  which  bounded  the 
domain.  ' '  How  does  it  come, ' '  asked  Mary, ' '  that  we  have 
to  walk  so  far  here,  when,  without,  the  circuit  is  so 
narrow?  " 

''  I  know  not,"  said  her  friend;  "  but  so  it  is." 

They  mounted  to  the  dark  firs,  and  a  chill  wind  blew  from 
without  in  their  faces;  a  haze  seemed  lying  far  and  wide 
over  the  landscape.  On  the  top  were  many  strange  forms 
standing,  with  mealy,  dusty  faces,  their  misshapen  heads 
not  unlike  those  of  white  owls;  they  were  clad  in  folded 
cloaks  of  shaggy  wool ;  they  held  umbrellas  of  curious  skins 
stretched  out  above  them;  and  they  waved  and  fanned 
themselves  incessantly  with  large  bat's  wings,  which  flared 
out  curiously  beside  the  woolen  roquelaures.  **  I  could 
laugh,  yet  I  am  frightened,"  cried  Mary. 

*'  These  are  our  good  trusty  watchmen,"  said  her  play- 
mate ;  ' '  they  stand  here  and  wave  their  fans,  that  cold 
anxiety  and  inexplicable  fear  may  fall  on  every  one  that 
attempts  to  approach  us.  They  are  covered  so,  because 
without  it  is  now  cold  and  rainy,  which  they  cannot  bear. 
But  snow,  or  wind,  or  cold  air,  never  reaches  down  to  us; 
here  is  an  everlasting  spring  and  summer:  yet  if  these 
poor  people  on  the  top  were  not  frequently  relieved,  they 
would  certainly  perish." 

''  But  who  are  you,  then?  "  inquired  Mary,  while  again 
descending  to  the  flowery  fragrance ;  * '  or  have  you  no  name 
at  all?" 

' '  We  are  called  the  Elves, ' '  replied  the  friendly  child ; 
*'  people  talk  about  us  on  the  Earth,  as  I  have  heard." 

They  now  perceived  a  mighty  bustle  on  the  green.  ' '  The 
fair  Bird  is  come !  ' '  cried  the  children  to  them :  all  hastened 
to  the  hall.    Here,  as  they  approached,  young  and  old  were 


282  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

crowding  over  the  threshold,  all  shouting  for  joy;  and  from 
within  resounded  a  triumphant  peal  of  music.  Having 
entered,  they  perceived  the  vast  circuit  filled  with  the  most 
varied  forms,  and  all  were  looking  upward  to  a  large  Bird 
with  gleaming  plumage,  that  was  sweeping  slowly  round  in 
the  dome,  and  in  its  stately  flight  describing  many  a  circle. 
The  music  sounded  more  gaily  than  before ;  the  colors  and 
lights  alternated  more  rapidly.  At  last  the  music  ceased; 
and  the  Bird,  with  a  rustling  noise,  floated  down  upon  a 
glittering  crown  that  hung  hovering  in  air  under  the  high 
window  by  which  the  hall  was  lighted  from  above.  His 
plumage  was  purple  and  green,  and  shining  golden  streaks 
played  through  it;  on  his  head  there  waved  a  diadem  of 
feathers,  so  resplendent  that  they  sparkled  like  jewels.  His 
bill  was  red,  and  his  legs  of  a  flashing  blue.  As  he  moved, 
the  tints  gleamed  through  each  other,  and  the  eye  was 
charmed  with  their  radiance.  His  size  was  as  that  of  an 
eagle.  But  now  he  opened  his  glittering  beak ;  and  sweetest 
melodies  came  pouring  from  his  moved  breast,  in  finer 
tones  than  the  lovesick  nightingale  gives  forth;  still 
stronger  rose  the  song,  and  streamed  like  floods  of  Light, 
so  that  all,  the  very  children  themselves,  were  moved  by  it 
to  tears  of  joy  and  rapture.  When  he  ceased,  all  bowed 
before  him;  he  again  flew  round  the  dome  in  circles,  then 
darted  through  the  door,  and  soared  into  the  light  heaven, 
where  he  shone  far  up  like  a  red  point,  and  then  soon  van- 
ished from  their  eyes. 

*  *  Why  are  ye  all  so  glad  ?  ' '  inquired  Mary,  bending  to 
her  fair  playmate,  who  seemed  smaller  than  yesterday. 

' '  The  King  is  coming !  ' '  said  the  little  one ;  * '  many  of 
us  have  never  seen  him,  and  whithersoever  he  turns  his 
face,  there  are  happiness  and  mirth;  we  have  long  looked 
for  him,  more  anxiously  than  you  look  for  spring  when 
winter  lingers  with  you ;  and  now  he  has  announced,  by  his 
fair  herald,  that  he  is  at  hand.  This  wise  and  glorious 
Bird,  that  has  been  sent  to  us  by  the  King,  is  called  Phcenix ; 
he  dwells  far  off  in  Arabia,  on  a  tree  —  there  is  no  other 


Permission  Velhagen  &  Klasing,  Bielefeld  and  Leipzig 
DANCE  OF  THE  ELVES 


MORITZ    VON    SCHVVIND 


THE  ELVES  283 

that  resembles  it  on  Earth,  as  in  like  manner  there  is 
no  second  Phoenix.  When  he  feels  himself  grown  old,  he 
builds  a  pile  of  balm  and  incense,  kindles  it,  and  dies  sing- 
ing; and  then  from  the  fragrant  ashes  soars  up  the  renewed 
Phoenix,  with  unlessened  beauty.  It  is  seldom  he  so  wings 
his  course  that  men  behold  him ;  and  when  once  in  centuries 
this  does  occur,  they  note  it  in  their  annals,  and  expect 
remarkable  events.  But  now,  my  friend,  thou  and  I  must 
part;  for  the  sight  of  the  King  is  not  permitted  thee." 

Then  the  lady  with  the  golden  robe  came  through  the 
throng,  and  beckoning  Mary  to  her,  led  her  into  a  seques- 
tered walk.  ''  Thou  must  leave  us,  my  dear  child,"  said 
she;  ''  the  King  is  to  hold  his  court  here  for  twenty  years, 
perhaps  longer;  and  fruitfulness  and  blessings  will  spread 
far  over  the  land,  but  chiefly  here  beside  us ;  all  the  brooks 
and  rivulets  will  become  more  bountiful,  all  the  fields  and 
gardens  richer,  the  wine  more  generous,  the  meadows  more 
fertile,  and  the  woods  more  fresh  and  green;  a  milder  air 
will  blow,  no  hail  shall  hurt,  no  flood  shall  threaten.  Take 
this  ring,  and  think  of  us-;  but  beware  of  telling  any  one 
of  our  existence  or  we  must  fly  this  land,  and  thou  and  all 
around  will  lose  the  happiness  and  blessing  of  our  neigh- 
borhood. Once  more,  kiss  thy  playmate,  and  farewell." 
They  issued  from  the  walk;  Zerina  wept,  Mary  stooped  to 
embrace  her,  and  they  parted.  Already  she  was  on  the 
narrow  bridge ;  the  cold  air  was  blowing  on  her  back  from 
the  firs;  the  little  dog  barked  with  all  its  might,  and  rang 
its  little  bell ;  she  looked  round,  then  hastened  over,  for  the 
darkness  of  the  firs,  the  bleakness  of  the  ruined  huts,  the 
shadows  of  the  twilight,  were  filling  her  with  terror. 

'*  What  a  night  my  parents  must  have  had  on  my 
account!  "  said  she  within  herself,  as  she  stepped  on  the 
green;  *'  and  I  dare  not  tell  them  where  I  have  been,  or 
what  wonders  I  have  witnessed,  nor  indeed  would  they 
believe  me. ' '  Two  men  passing  by  saluted  her,  and  as  they 
went  along,  she  heard  them  say :  ' '  What  a  pretty  girl ! 
Where  can  she  have  come  from?  "    With  quickened  steps 


284  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

she  approached  the  house ;  but  the  trees  which  were  hanging 
last  night  loaded  with  fruit  were  now  standing  dry  and 
leafless ;  the  house  was  differently  painted,  and  a  new  barn 
had  been  built  beside  it.  Mary  was  amazed,  and  thought 
she  must  be  dreaming.  In  this  perplexity  she  opened  the 
door;  and  behind  the  table  sat  her  father,  between  an  un- 
known woman  and  a  stranger  youth.  ' '  Good  God !  Father, ' ' 
cried  she,  ' '  where  is  my  mother  ? ' ' 

' '  Thy  mother ! ' '  said  the  woman,  with  a  forecasting  tone, 
and  sprang  toward  her :  "  Ha,  thou  surely  canst  not  — 
yes,  indeed,  indeed  thou  art  my  lost,  long-lost,  dear,  only 
Mary!  "  She  had  recognized  her  by  a  little  brown  mole 
beneath  the  chin,  as  well  as  by  her  eyes  and  shape.  All 
embraced  her,  all  were  moved  with  joy,  and  the  parents 
wept.  Mary  was  astonished  that  she  almost  reached  to 
her  father's  stature;  and  she  could  not  understand  how  her 
mother  had  become  so  changed  and  faded;  she  asked  the 
name  of  the  stranger  youth.  "It  is  our  neighbor's 
Andrew,"  said  Martin.  "  How  comest  thou  to  us  again,  so 
unexpectedly,  after  seven  long  years?  Where  hast  thou 
been?     Why  didst  thou  never  send  us  tidings  of  thee?  " 

**  Seven  years!  "  said  Mary,  and  could  not  order  her 
ideas  and  recollections.     ''  Seven  whole  years?  " 

*'Yes,  yes,"  said  Andrew,  laughing,  and  shaking  her 
trustfully  by  the  hand ;  '  *  I  have  won  the  race,  good  Mary ; 
I  was  at  the  pear-tree  and  back  again  seven  years  ago,  and 
thou,  sluggish  creature,  art  but  just  returned!  " 

They  again  asked,  they  pressed  her;  but  remembering 
her  instruction,  she  could  answer  nothing.  It  was  they 
themselves  chiefly  that,  by  degrees,  shaped  a  story  for  her : 
How,  having  lost  her  way,  she  had  been  taken  up  by  a 
coach,  and  carried  to  a  strange  remote  part,  where  she 
could  not  give  the  people  any  notion  of  her  parents'  resi- 
dence; how  she  was  conducted  to  a  distant  town,  where 
certain  worthy  persons  brought  her  up,  and  loved  her ;  how 
they  had  lately  died,  and  at  length  she  had  recollected  her 
birthplace,  and  so  returned.      *' No  matter  how  it  is!" 


THE  ELVES  285 

exclaimed  her  mother ;  ' '  enough  that  we  have  thee  again, 
my  little  daughter,  my  own,  my  all !  " 

Andrew  waited  supper,  and  Mary  could  not  be  at  home  in 
anything  she  saw.  The  house  seemed  small  and  dark;  she 
felt  astonished  at  her  dress,  which  was  clean  and  simple, 
but  appeared  quite  foreign;  she  looked  at  the  ring  on  her 
finger,  and  the  gold  of  it  glittered  strangely,  inclosing  a 
stone  of  burning  red.  To  her  father's  question,  she  replied 
that  the  ring  also  was  a  present  from  her  benefactors. 

She  was  glad  when  the  hour  of  sleep  arrived,  and  she 
hastened  to  her  bed.  Next  morning  she  felt  much  more 
collected;  she  had  now  arranged  her  thoughts  a  little,  and 
could  better  stand  the  questions  of  the  people  in  the  village, 
all  of  whom  came  in  to  bid  her  welcome.  Andrew  was  there 
too  with  the  earliest,  active,  glad,  and  serviceable  beyond 
all  others.  The  blooming  maiden  of  fifteen  had  made  a 
deep  impression  on  him;  he  had  passed  a  sleepless  night. 
The  people  of  the  castle  likewise  sent  for  Mary,  and  she 
had  once  more  to  tell  her  story  to  them,  which  was  now 
grown  quite  familiar  to  her.  The  old  Count  and  his  Lady 
were  surprised  at  her  good  breeding;  she  was  modest,  but 
not  embarrassed;  she  made  answer  courteously  in  good 
phrases  to  all  their  questions ;  all  fear  of  noble  persons  and 
their  equipage  had  passed  away  from  her;  for  when  she 
measured  these  halls  and  forms  by  the  wonders  and  the 
high  beauty  she  had  seen  with  the  Elves  in  their  hidden 
abode,  this  earthly  splendor  seemed  but  dim  to  her,  the 
presence  of  men  was  almost  mean.  The  young  lords  were 
charmed  with  her  beauty. 

It  was  now  February.  The  trees  were  budding  earlier 
than  usual;  the  nightingale  had  never  come  so  soon;  the 
spring  rose  fairer  in  the  land  than  the  oldest  men  could 
recollect  it.  In  every  quarter,  little  brooks  gushed  out  to 
irrigate  the  pastures  and  meadows;  the  hills  seemed  heav- 
ing, the  vines  rose  higher  and  higher,  the  fruit-trees  blos- 
somed as  they  had  never  done;  and  a  swelling  fragrant 
blessedness  hung  suspended  heavily  in  rosy  clouds  over 


286  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

the  scene.  All  prospered  beyond  expectation :  no  rude  day, 
no  tempest  injured  the  fruits ;  the  wine  flowed  blushing  in 
immense  grapes ;  and  the  inhabitants  of  the  place  felt  aston- 
ished, and  were  captivated  as  in  a  sweet  dream.  The  next 
year  was  like  its  foi*erunner;  but  men  had  now  become 
accustomed  to  the  marvelous.  In  autumn,  Mary  yielded 
to  the  pressing  entreaties  of  Andrew  and  her  parents ;  she 
was  betrothed  to  him,  and  in  winter  they  were  married. 

She  often  thought  with  inward  longing  of  her  residence 
behind  the  fir-trees;  she  continued  serious  and  still.  Beau- 
tiful as  all  that  lay  around  her  was,  she  knew  of  something 
yet  more  beautiful;  and  from  the  remembrance  of  this  a 
faint  regret  attuned  her  nature  to  soft  melancholy.  It 
smote  her  painfully  when  her  father  and  mother  talked 
about  the  gipsies  and  vagabonds  that  dwelt  in  the  dark 
spot  of  ground.  Often  she  was  on  the  point  of  speaking 
out  in  defense  of  those  good  beings,  whom  she  knew  to  be 
the  benefactors  of  the  land;  especially  to  Andrew,  who 
appeared  to  take  delight  in  zealously  abusing  them;  yet 
still  she  repressed  the  W'Ord  that  was  struggling  to  escape 
her  bosom.  So  passed  this  year;  in  the  next,  she  was 
solaced  by  a  little  daughter,  whom  she  named  Elfrida, 
thinking  of  the  designation  of  her  friendly  Elves. 

The  young  people  lived  with  Martin  and  Brigitta,  the 
house  being  large  enough  for  all,  and  helped  their  parents 
in  conducting  their  now  extended  husbandry.  The  little 
Elfrida  soon  displayed  peculiar  faculties  and  gifts ;  for  she 
could  walk  at  a  very  early  age,  and  could  speak  perfectly 
before  she  was  a  twelvemonth  old;  and  after  some  few 
years  she  had  become  so  wise  and  clever,  and  of  such  won- 
drous beauty,  that  all  people  regarded  her  with  astonish- 
ment, and  her  mother  could  not  banish  the  thought  that 
her  child  resembled  one  of  those  shining  little  ones  in  the 
space  behind  the  Firs.  Elfrida  cared  not  to  be  with  other 
children,  but  seemed  to  avoid,  wdtli  a  sort  of  horror,  their 
tumultuous  amusements,  and  liked  best  to  be  alone.  She 
would  then  retire  into  a  corner  of  the  garden,  and  read,  or 


THE  ELVES  287 

work  diligently  with  her  needle;  often  also  you  might  see 
her  sitting,  as  if  deep  in  thought,  or  impetuously  walking 
up  and  down  the  alleys,  speaking  to  herself.  Her  parents 
readily  allowed  her  to  have  her  will  in  these  things,  for  she 
was  healthy,  and  waxed  apace ;  only  her  strange  sagacious 
answers  and  observations  often  made  them  anxious.  * '  Such 
wise  children  do  not  grow  to  age,"  her  grandmother,  Bri- 
gitta,  many  times  observed ;  ' '  they  are  too  good  for  this 
world;  the  child,  besides,  is  beautiful  beyond  nature,  and 
will  never  find  her  proper  place  on  Earth." 

The  little  girl  had  this  peculiarity,  that  she  was  very 
loath  to  let  herself  be  served  by  any  one,  but  endeavored 
to  do  everything  herself.  She  was  almost  the  earliest  riser 
in  the  house;  she  washed  herself  carefully,  and  dressed 
without  assistance;  at  night  she  was  equally  careful;  she 
took  special  heed  to  pack  up  her  clothes  and  belongings  with 
her  own  hands,  allowing  no  one,  not  even  her  mother,  to 
meddle  with  her  articles.  The  mother  humored  her  in  this 
caprice,  not  thinking  it  of  any  consequence.  But  what  was 
her  astonishment,  when,  happening  one  holiday  to  insist, 
regardless  of  Elfrida's  tears  and  screams,  on  dressing  her 
out  for  a  visit  to  the  castle,  she  found  upon  her  breast,  sus- 
pended by  a  string,  a  piece  of  gold  of  a  strange  form, 
which  she  directly  recognized  as  one  of  the  sort  she  had 
seen  in  such  abundance  in  the  subterranean  vaults!  The 
little  thing  was  greatly  frightened,  and  at  last  confessed 
that  she  had  found  it  in  the  garden,  and,  as  she  liked  it 
much,  had  kept  it  carefully ;  she  at  the  same  time  prayed  so 
earnestly  and  pressingly  to  have  it  back  that  Mary  fastened 
it  again  in  its  former  place,  and,  full  of  thoughts,  went  out 
with  her  in  silence  to  the  castle. 

Sideward  from  the  farm-house  lay  some  offices  for  the 
storing  of  produce  and  implements ;  and  behind  these  there 
was  a  little  green,  with  an  old  arbor,  now  visited  by  no  one, 
as,  from  the  new  arrangement  of  the  buildings,  it  lay  too 
far  from  the  garden.  In  this  solitude  Elfrida  delighted 
most;  and  it  occurred  to  nobody  to  interrupt  her  here,  so 


288  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

that  frequently  her  parents  did  not  see  her  for  half  a  day. 
One  afternoon  her  mother  chanced  to  be  in  these  buildings, 
seeking  for  some  lost  article  among  the  lumber;  and  she 
noticed  that  a  beam  of  light  was  coming  in,  through  a  chink 
in  the  wall.  She  took  a  thought  of  looking  through  this 
aperture,  and  seeing  what  her  child  was  busied  with ;  and 
it  happened  that  a  stone  was  lying  loose,  and  could  be 
pushed  aside,  so  that  she  obtained  a  view  right  into  the 
arbor.  Elfrida  was  sitting  there  on  a  little  bench,  and 
beside  her  the  well-known  Zerina;  and  the  children  were 
playing  and  amusing  each  other,  in  the  kindliest  unity. 
The  Elf  embraced  her  beautiful  companion,  and  said  mourn- 
fully: ''Ah!  dear  little  creature,  as  I  sport  with  thee,  so 
have  I  sported  with  thy  mother,  when  she  was  a  child ;  but 
you  mortals  so  soon  grow  tall  and  thoughtful !  It  is  very 
hard ;  wert  thou  but  to  be  a  child  as  long  as  I !  " 

''  Willingly  would  I  do  it,"  said  Elfrida;  '*  but  they  all 
say  I  shall  come  to  sense  and  give  over  playing  altogether ; 
for  I  have  great  gifts,  as  they  think,  for  growing  wise.  Ah ! 
and  then  I  shall  see  thee  no  more,  thou  dear  Zerina !  Yet  it 
is  with  us  as  with  the  fruit-tree  flowers  —  how  glorious  the 
blossoming  apple-tree,  w^ith  its  red  bursting  buds !  It  looks 
so  stately  and  broad;  and  every  one  that  passes  under  it 
thinks  surely  something  great  will  come  of  it;  then  the  sun 
grows  hot,  and  the  buds  come  joyfully  forth;  but  the  wicked 
kernel  is  already  there,  which  pushes  off  and  casts  away  the 
fair  flower's  dress;  and  now,  in  pain  and  waxing,  it  can  do 
nothing  more,  but  must  grow  to  fruit  in  harvest.  An  apple, 
to  be  sure,  is  pretty  and  refreshing ;  yet  nothing  to  the  blos- 
som of  spring.  So  is  it  also  with  us  mortals;  I  am  not 
glad  in  the  least  at  growing  to  be  a  tall  girl.  Ah!  could 
I  but  once  visit  you !  ' ' 

''  Since  the  King  is  with  us,"  said  Zerina,  **  it  is  quite 
impossible ;  but  I  will  come  to  thee,  my  darling,  often,  often, 
and  none  shall  see  me  either  here  or  there.  I  will  pass 
invisible  through  the  air,  or  fly  over  to  thee  like  a  bird. 


THE  ELVES  289 

Oh,  we  will  be  much,  much  together,  while  thou  art  so 
little !    What  can  I  do  to  please  thee  f  ' ' 

*  *  Thou  must  like  me  very  dearly, ' '  said  Elf  rida,  * '  as  I 
like  thee  in  my  heart ;  but  come,  let  us  make  another  rose. ' ' 

Zerina  took  a  well-known  box  from  her  bosom,  threw  two 
grains  from  it  on  the  ground,  and  instantly  a  green  bush 
stood  before  them,  with  two  deep-red  roses,  bending  their 
heads  as  if  to  kiss  each  other.  The  children  plucked  them 
smiling,  and  the  bush  disappeared.  ''  0  that  it  would  not 
die  so  soon ! ' '  said  Elf  rida ;  * '  this  red  child,  this  wonder 
of  the  Earth!" 

*'  Give  it  me  here,"  said  the  little  Elf;  then  breathed 
thrice  upon  the  budding  rose,  and  kissed  it  thrice.  '  *  Now, ' ' 
said  she,  giving  back  the  rose,  ''  it  will  continue  fresh  and 
blooming  till  winter." 

"  I  will  keep  it,"  said  Elf  rida,  ^*  as  an  image  of  thee;  I 
will  guard  it  in  my  little  room,  and  kiss  it  night  and  morn- 
ing as  if  it  were  thyself. ' ' 

* '  The  sun  is  setting, ' '  said  the  other ;  *  *  I  must  home. ' ' 
They  embraced  again,  and  Zerina  vanished. 

In  the  evening,  Mary  clasped  her  child  to  her  breast,  with 
a  feeling  of  alarm  and  veneration.  She  henceforth  allowed 
the  good  little  girl  more  liberty  than  formerly;  and  often 
calmed  her  husband,  when  he  came  to  search  for  the  child ; 
which  for  some  time  he  was  wont  to  do,  as  her  retiredness 
did  not  please  him,  and  he  feared  that,  in  the  end,  it  might 
make  her  silly,  or  even  pervert  her  understanding.  The 
mother  often  glided  to  the  chink ;  and  almost  always  found 
the  bright  Elf  beside  her  child,  employed  in  sport,  or  in 
earnest  conversation. 

**  Wouldst  thou  like  to  fly?  "  inquired  Zerina  once. 

* '  Oh,  well !  How  well ! '  *  replied  Elf  rida ;  and  the  fairy 
clasped  her  mortal  playmate  in  her  arms,  and  mounted  with 
her  from  the  ground,  till  they  hovered  above  the  arbor. 
The  mother,  in  alarm,  forgot  herself,  and  pushed  out  her 
head  in  terror  to  look  after  them;  when  Zerina  from  the 
air,  held  up  her  finger,  and  threatened,  yet  smiled;  then 

Vol.  IV— 19 


290  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

descended  with  the  child,  embraced  her,  and  disappeared. 
After  this,  it  happened  more  than  once  that  Mary  was 
observed  by  her ;  and  every  time,  the  shining  little  creature 
shook  her  head,  or  threatened,  yet  with  friendly  looks. 

Often,  in  disputing  with  her  husband,  Mary  had  said  in 
her  zeal :  * '  Thou  dost  injustice  to  the  poor  people  in  the 
hut !  ' '  But  when  Andrew  pressed  her  to  explain  why  she 
differed  in  opinion  from  the  w^hole  village,  nay,  from  his 
lordship  himself,  and  why  she  could  understand  it  better 
than  the  whole  of  them,  she  still  broke  off  embarrassed, 
and  became  silent.  One  day,  after  dinner,  Andrew  grew 
more  insistent  than  ever,  and  maintained  that,  by  one  means 
or  another,  the  crew  must  be  packed  away,  as  a  nuisance 
to  the  country;  when  his  wife,  in  anger,  said  to  him: 
'  *  Hush !  for  they  are  benefactors  to  thee  and  to  every 
one  of  us." 

"  Benefactors!  "  cried  the  other,  in  astonishment; 
*'  These  rogues  and  vagabonds?  " 

In  her  indignation,  she  was  now  at  last  tempted  to  relate 
to  him,  under  promise  of  the  strictest  secrecy,  the  history 
of  her  j^outh;  and  as  Andrew  at  every  word  grew  more 
incredulous,  and  shook  his  head  in  mockery,  she  took  him 
by  the  hand,  and  led  him  to  the  chink;  where,  to  his  amaze- 
ment, he  beheld  the  glittering  Elf  sporting  with  his  child, 
and  caressing  her  in  the  arbor.  He  knew  not  what  to  say; 
an  exclamation  of  astonishment  escaped  him,  and  Zerina 
raised  her  eyes.  On  the  instant  she  grew  pale,  and  trem- 
bled violently ;  not  with  friendly,  but  with  indignant  looks, 
she  made  the  sign  of  threatening,  and  then  said  to  Elfrida : 
*'  Thou  canst  not  help  it,  dearest  heart;  but  outsiders  will 
never  learn  sense,  wise  as  they  believe  themselves."  She 
embraced  the  little  one  with  stormy  haste ;  and  then,  in  the 
shape  of  a  raven,  flew  with  hoarse  cries  over  the  garden, 
toward  the  firs. 

In  the  evening,  the  little  one  was  very  still,  she  kissed 
her  rose  with  tears;  Mary  felt  depressed  and  frightened; 
Andrew  scarcely  spoke.     It  grew  dark.     Suddenly  there 


THE  ELVES  291 

went  a  rustling  through  the  trees ;  birds  flew  to  and  fro  with 
wild  screaming,  thunder  was  heard  to  roll,  the  earth  shook, 
and  tones  of  lamentation  moaned  in  the  air.  Andrew  and 
his  wife  had  not  courage  to  rise ;  they  wrapped  themselves 
in  their  bed  clothes,  and  with  fear  and  trembling  awaited 
the  day.  Toward  morning  it  grew  calmer;  and  all  was 
silent  when  the  sun,  with  his  cheerful  light,  rose  over  the 
wood. 

Andrew  dressed  himself,  and  Mary  now  observed  that  the 
stone  of  the  ring  upon  her  finger  had  become  quite  pale. 
On  opening  the  door,  the  sun  shone  clear  on  their  faces, 
but  the  scene  around  them  they  could  scarcely  recognize. 
The  freshness  of  the  wood  was  gone ;  the  hills  were  shrunk, 
the  brooks  were  flowing  languidly  with  scanty  streams,  the 
sky  seemed  gray;  and  when  you  turned  to  the  Firs,  they 
were  standing  there  no  darker  or  more  dreary  than  the 
other  trees.  The  huts  behind  were  no  longer  frightful; 
and  several  inhabitants  of  the  village  came  and  told  about 
the  fearful  night,  and  how  they  had  been  across  the  spot 
where  the  gipsies  had  lived;  how  these  people  must  have 
left  the  place  at  last,  for  their  huts  were  standing  empty, 
and  within  had  quite  a  common  look,  just  like  the  dwellings 
of  other  poor  people ;  some  of  their  household  gear  was  left 
behind. 

Elf rida  in  secret  said  to  her  mother :  * '  I  could  not  sleep 
last  night;  and  in  my  fright  at  the  noise,  I  was  praying 
from  the  bottom  of  my  heart,  when  the  door  suddenly 
opened,  and  my  plajnnate  entered  to  take  leave  of  me. 
She  had  a  traveling-pouch  slung  round  her,  a  hat  on  her 
head,  and  a  large  staff  in  her  hand.  She  was  very  angry 
at  thee;  since  on  thy  account  she  had  now  to  suffer  the 
severest  and  most  painful  punishments,  as  she  had  always 
been  so  fond  of  thee;  for  all  of  them,  she  said,  were  very 
loath  to  leave  this  quarter." 

Mary  forbade  her  to  speak  of  this ;  and  now  the  ferryman 
came  across  the  river,  and  told  them  new  wonders.  As  it 
was  growing  dark,  a  stranger  of  large  size  had  come  to  him, 


292  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

and  had  hired  his  boat  till  sunrise,  but  with  this  condition, 
that  the  boatman  should  remain  quiet  in  his  house  — 
at  least  should  not  cross  the  threshold  of  his  door.  **  I  was 
frightened, ' '  continued  the  old  man,  * '  and  the  strange  bar- 
gain would  not  let  me  sleep,  I  slipped  softly  to  the  win- 
dow, and  looked  toward  the  river.  Great  clouds  were  driv- 
ing restlessly  through  the  sky,  and  the  distant  woods  were 
rustling  fearfully;  it  was  as  if  my  cottage  shook,  and 
moans  and  lamentations  glided  round  it.  On  a  sudden,  I 
perceived  a  white  streaming  light  that  grew  broader  and 
broader,  like  many  thousands  of  falling  stars;  sparkling 
and  waving,  it  proceeded  forward  from  the  dark  Fir- 
ground,  moved  over  the  fields,  and  spread  itself  along 
toward  the  river.  Then  I  heard  a  trampling,  a  jingling,  a 
bustling,  and  rushing,  nearer  and  nearer;  it  went  forward 
to  my  boat,  and  all  stepped  into  it,  men  and  women,  as  it 
seemed,  and  children;  and  the  tall  stranger  ferried  them 
over.  In  the  river,  by  the  boat,  were  swimming  many  thou- 
sands of  glittering  forms ;  in  the  air  white  clouds  and  lights 
were  wavering;  and  all  lamented  and  bewailed  that  they 
must  travel  forth  so  far,  far  away,  and  leave  their  beloved 
dwelling.  The  noise  of  the  rudder  and  the  water  creaked 
and  gurgled  between  whiles,  and  then  suddenly  there  would 
be  silence.  Many  a  time  the  boat  landed,  and  went  back, 
and  was  again  laden;  many  heavy  casks,  too,  they  took 
along  with  them,  which  multitudes  of  horrid-looking  little 
fellows  carried  and  rolled;  whether  they  were  devils  or 
goblins.  Heaven  only  knows.  Then  came,  in  waving  bright- 
ness, a  stately  train;  it  seemed  an  old  man,  mounted  on 
a  small  white  horse,  and  all  were  crowding  round  him.  I 
saw  nothing  of  the  horse  but  its  head ;  for  the  rest  of  it  was 
covered  with  costly  glittering  cloths  and  trappings ;  on  his 
brow  the  old  man  had  a  crown,  so  bright  that,  as  he  came 
across,  I  thought  the  sun  was  rising  there  and  the  redness 
of  the  dawn  glimmering  in  my  eyes.  Thus  it  went  on  all 
night;  I  at  last  fell  asleep  in  the  tumult,  half  in  joy,  half 
in  terror.     In  the  morning  all  was  still;  but  the  river  is, 


THE  ELVES  293 

as  it  were,  run  off,  and  I  know  not  how  I  am  to  use  my 
boat  in  it  now." 

The  same  year  there  came  a  blight ;  the  woods  died  away, 
the  springs  ran  dry;  and  the  scene,  which  had  once  been  the 
joy  of  every  traveler,  was  in  autumn  standing  waste,  naked, 
and  bald,  scarcely  showing  here  and  there,  in  the  sea  of 
sand,  a  spot  or  two  where  grass,  with  a  dingy  greenness, 
still  grew  up.  The  fruit-trees  all  withered,  the  vines  faded 
away,  and  the  aspect  of  the  place  became  so  melancholy 
that  the  Count,  with  his  people,  next  year  left  the  castle, 
which  in  time  decayed  and  fell  to  ruins. 

Elfrida  gazed  on  her  rose  day  and  night  with  deep  long- 
ing, and  thought  of  her  kind  playmate ;  and  as  it  drooped 
and  withered,  so  did  she  also  hang  her  head;  and  before 
the  spring,  the  little  maiden  had  herself  faded  away.  Mary 
often  stood  upon  the  spot  before  the  hut,  and  wept  for  the 
happiness  that  had  departed.  She  wasted  herself  away 
like  her  child,  and  in  a  few  years  she  too  was  gone.  Old 
Martin,  with  his  son-in-law,  returned  to  the  quarter  where 
he  had  lived  before. 


THE  LIFE  OF  HEINRICH  VON  KLEIST 

By  John  S.  Nollen,  Ph.D. 
President  of  Lake  Forest  College 

RANDENBURG  has,  from  olden  times,  been  the 
stern  mother  of  soldiers,  rearing  her  sons 
in  a  discipline  that  has  seemed  harsh  to  the 
^^^^^^  gentler  children  of  sunnier  lands.  The  rigid 
and  formal  pines  that  grow  in  sombre  mili- 
tary files  from  the  sandy  ground  make  a  fit  landscape  for 
this  race  of  fighting  and  ruling  men.  In  the  wider  extent 
of  Prussia  as  well,  the  greatest  names  have  been  those 
of  generals  and  statesmen,  such  as  the  Great  Elector, 
Frederick  the  Great,  and  Bismarck,  rather  than  poets  and 
artists.  Even  among  the  notable  writers  of  this  region, 
intellectual  power  has  usually  predominated  over  gifts  of 
feeling  or  of  imagination;  the  arid,  formal  talent  of 
Gottsched  is  an  exemplary  instance,  and  the  singularly 
cold  and  colorless  mind  of  the  greatest  thinker  of  modern 
times,  Immanuel  Kant,  seems  eminently  Prussian  in 
quality.  Growing  out  of  such  traditions  and  antecedents 
as  these,  the  genius  of  Heinrich  von  Kleist  appears  as  a 
striking  anomaly. 

This  first  great  literary  artist  of  Prussia  was  descended 
from  a  representative  Prussian  family  of  soldiers,  which 
had  numbered  eighteen  generals  among  its  members. 
Heinrich  von  Kleist  was  bom  October  18,  1777,  at  Frank- 
fort-on-the-Oder,  in  the  heart  of  Brandenburg,  where  his 
father  was  stationed  as  a  captain  in  the  service  of  Fred- 
erick the  Great.  The  parents,  both  of  gentle  birth,  died 
before  their  children  had  grown  to  maturity.  Heinrich  was 
predestined  by  all  the  traditions  of  the  family  to  a  mili- 
tary career ;  after  a  private  education  he  became,  at  the  age 
of  fourteen,  a  corporal  in  the  regiment  of  guards  at  Pots- 

[294] 


Permission  Oskar  HecR,  aiunicn 


HEINRICH  VON  KLEIST 

IN    HIS    TWENTY-FOURTH    YEAR 

Made  after  a  miniature  presented  by  the  poet  to  his  bride 


HEINRICH  VON  KLEIST  295 

dam.  The  regiment  was  ordered  south  for  the  Rhine 
campaign  against  the  French  revolutionists,  but  the  young 
soldier  saw  little  actual  fighting,  and  in  June,  1795,  his 
battalion  had  returned  to  Potsdam ;  he  was  then  an  ensign, 
and  in  his  twentieth  year  was  promoted  to  the  rank  of 
second  lieutenant. 

The  humdrum  duties  and  the  easy  pleasures  of  garrison 
life  had  no  lasting  charms  for  the  future  poet,  who  was  as 
yet  unconscious  of  his  latent  power,  but  was  restlessly 
reaching  out  for  a  wider  and  deeper  experience.  We  soon 
find  him  preparing  himself,  by  energetic  private  study,  for 
the  University;  in  April,  1799,  against  the  wishes  of  his 
family  and  his  superior  ofiicers,  he  obtained  a  discharge 
from  the  army  and  entered  upon  his  brief  course  as  a 
student  in  his  native  city.  He  applied  himself  with 
laborious  zeal  to  the  mastery  of  a  wide  range  of  subjects, 
and  hastened,  with  pedantic  gravity,  to  retail  his  newly 
won  learning  to  his  sisters  and  a  group  of  their  friends. 
For  the  time  being,  the  impulse  of  self-expression  took  this 
didactic  turn,  which  is  very  prominent  also  in  his  cor- 
respondence. Within  the  year  he  was  betrothed  to  a  mem- 
ber of  this  informal  class,  Wilhelmina  von  Zenge,  the 
daughter  of  an  officer.  The  question  of  a  career  now 
crowded  out  his  interest  in  study;  in  August,  1800,  as  a 
step  toward  the  solution  of  this  problem,  Kleist  returned 
to  Berlin  and  secured  a  modest  appointment  in  the  cus- 
toms department.  He  found  no  more  satisfaction  in  the 
civil  than  in  his  former  military  service,  and  all  manner 
of  vague  plans,  artistic,  literary  and  academic,  occupied 
his  mind.  Intensive  study  of  Kant's  philosophy  brought 
on  an  intellectual  crisis,  in  which  the  ardent  student  found 
himself  bereft  of  his  fond  hope  of  attaining  to  absolute 
truth.  Meanwhile  the  romantic  appeal  of  Nature,  first 
heeded  on  a  trip  to  Wiirzburg,  and  the  romantic  lure  of 
travel,  drew  the  dreamer  irresistibly  away  from  his  desk. 
His  sister  Ulrica  accompanied  him  on  a  journey  that  began 
in  April,  1801,  and  brought  them,  by  a  devious  route,  to 


296  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

Paris  in  July.  By  tliis  time  Kleist  had  become  clearly  con- 
scious of  his  vocation ;  the  strong  creative  impulse  that  had 
hitherto  bewildered  him  now  found  its  proper  vent  in 
poetic  expression,  and  he  felt  himself  dedicated  to  a  literary 
career.  With  characteristic  secretiveness  he  kept  hidden, 
even  from  his  sister,  the  drama  at  which  he  was  quietly 
working. 

Absorbed  in  his  new  ambition,  Kleist  found  little  in 
Paris  to  interest  him.  He  felt  the  need  of  solitude  for  the 
maturing  of  his  plans,  and  with  the  double  object  of  seek- 
ing in  idyllic  pursuits  the  inspiration  of  Nature  and  of 
earning  leisure  for  writing,  he  proposed  to  his  betrothed 
that  she  join  him  secretly  in  establishing  a  home  upon  a 
small  farm  in  Switzerland.  When  Wilhelmina  found  it 
impossible  to  accept  this  plan,  Kleist  coldly  severed  all 
relations  with  her.  He  journeyed  to  Switzerland  in 
December,  1801,  and  in  Bern  became  acquainted  with  a 
group  of  young  authors,  the  novelist  Heinrich  Zschokke, 
the  publisher  Heinrich  Gessner,  and  Ludwig  Wieland,  son 
of  the  famous  author  of  Oheron.  To  these  sympathetic 
friends  he  read  his  first  tragedy,  which,  in  its  earlier  draft, 
had  a  Spanish  setting,  as  The  Thierrez  Family  or  The 
Ghonorez  Family,  but  which,  on  their  advice,  was  given  a 
German  background.  This  drama  Gessner  published  for 
Kleist,  under  the  title  The  Schroffenstein  Family,  in  the 
winter  of  1802-03.  It  had  no  sooner  appeared  than  the 
author  felt  himself  to  have  outgrown  its  youthful  weak- 
nesses of  imitation  and  exaggeration.  Another  dramatic 
production  grew  directly  out  of  the  discussions  of  this  little 
circle.  The  friends  agreed,  on  a  wager,  to  put  into  literary 
form  the  story  suggested  by  an  engraving  that  hung  in 
Zschokke 's  room.  By  common  consent  the  prize  was 
awarded  to  Kleist 's  production,  his  one  comedy,  The 
Broken  Jug. 

In  April,  1802,  Kleist  realized  his  romantic  dream  by 
taking  up  his  abode,  in  rural  seclusion,  on  a  little  island 
at  the  outlet  of  the  Lake  of  Thun,  amid  the  majestic  scenery 


HEINRICH  VON  KLEIST  297 

of  the  Bernese  Oberland.  In  this  retreat,  encouraged  by 
the  applause  of  his  first  confidants,  he  labored  with  joyous 
energy,  recasting  his  Schrofenstein  Family,  working  out 
the  Broken  Jug,  meditating  historical  dramas  on  Leopold 
of  Austria  and  Peter  the  Hermit,  and  expending  the  best 
of  his  untrained  genius  on  the  plan  of  a  tragedy,  Robert 
Guiscard,  in  which  he  strove  to  create  a  drama  of  a  new 
type,  combining  the  beauties  of  Greek  classical  art  and  of 
Shakespeare ;  with  his  Guiscard  the  young  poet  even  dared 
hope  to  * '  snatch  the  laurel  wreath  from  Goethe 's  brow. '  * 

Two  months  of  intense  mental  exertion  in  the  seclusion 
of  his  island  left  Kleist  exhausted,  and  he  fell  seriously  ill ; 
whereupon  Ulrica,  on  receiving  belated  news  of  his  plight, 
hastened  to  Bern  to  care  for  him.  "When  a  political  revo- 
lution drove  Ludwig  Wieland  from  Bern,  they  followed 
the  latter  to  Weimar,  where  the  poet  Wieland,  the  dean  of 
the  remarkable  group  of  great  authors  gathered  at  Weimar, 
received  Kleist  kindly,  and  made  him  his  guest  at  his 
country  estate.  With  great  difficulty  Wieland  succeeded 
in  persuading  his  secretive  visitor  to  reveal  his  literary 
plans;  and  when  Kleist  recited  from  memory  some  of  the 
scenes  of  his  unfinished  Guiscard,  the  old  poet  was  trans- 
ported with  enthusiasm;  these  fragments  seemed  to  him 
worthy  of  the  united  genius  of  ^schylus,  Sophocles,  and 
Shakespeare,  and  he  was  convinced  that  Kleist  had  the 
power  to  ' '  fill  the  void  in  the  history  of  the  German  drama 
that  even  Goethe  and  Schiller  had  not  filled. ' '  But  in  spite 
of  Wieland 's  generous  encouragement,  Kleist  found  it  im- 
possible to  complete  this  masterpiece,  and  his  hopeless  pur- 
suit of  the  perfect  ideal  became  an  intolerable  obsession  to 
his  ambitious  and  sensitive  soul.  He  could  not  remain  in 
Weimar.  In  Dresden  old  friends  sought  to  cheer  him  in 
his  desperate  attempts  to  seize  the  elusive  ideal;  to  more 
than  one  of  them,  in  his  despair,  he  proposed  a  joint  suicide. 
Again  he  was  driven  to  seek  solace  and  inspiration  in 
travel,  a  friend  accompanying  him  to  Switzerland.  Arrived 
at  Geneva  in  October,  1803,  Kleist  fell  into  the  deepest 


298  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

despondency,  and  wrote  Ulrica  a  letter  full  of  hopeless 
renunciation.  Half  crazed  by  disappointment  and  wounded 
pride,  he  rushed  madly  through  France  to  Paris,  broke 
with  his  friend,  who  had  again  repelled  a  joint  suicide, 
burned  his  manuscript  of  Guiscard,  and  made  secretly  for 
Boulogne,  hoping  to  find  an  honorable  death  in  Napoleon  *8 
projected  invasion  of  England.  Fortunately  he  fell  in  with 
an  acquaintance  who  saved  him  from  the  risk  of  being 
arrested  as  a  spy,  and  started  him  back  on  his  homeward 
way.  He  was  detained  at  Mentz  by  serious  illness,  but 
finally,  in  June,  1804,  reappeared  in  Potsdam.  The  poet's 
spirit  was  broken,  and  he  was  glad  to  accept  a  petty  civil 
post  that  took  him  to  Konigsberg.  After  a  year  of  quiet 
work,  he  was  enabled,  by  a  small  pension  from  Queen 
Louise,  to  resign  his  office  and  again  devote  himself  to 
literature. 

The  two  years  spent  in  Konigsberg  were  years  of  remark- 
able development  in  Kleist's  literary  power.  Warned  by 
the  catastrophe  of  the  earlier  attempt  to  reach  the  heights 
at  a  single  bound,  he  now  schooled  himself  with  simpler 
tasks:  adaptations,  from  the  French,  of  La  Fontaine's 
poem,  The  two  Pigeons,  and  of  Moliere's  comedy,  Amphi- 
tryon—  both  so  altered  in  the  interpretation  that  they 
seem  more  like  originals  than  translations ;  prose  tales  that 
are  admirable  examples  of  this  form  —  The  Marquise  of  0., 
The  Earthquake  in  Chili,  and  the  first  part  of  the  masterly 
short  story  Michael  Kohlhaas;  and  the  recasting  of  the 
unique  comedy  The  Broken  Jug.  Finally  he  attempted 
another  great  drama  in  verse,  Penthesilea,  embodying  in 
the  old  classical  story  the  tragedy  of  his  own  desperate 
struggle  for  Guiscard,  and  his  crushing  defeat. 

Meanwhile  the  clouds  were  gathering  about  his  beloved 
country,  and  in  October,  1806,  the  thunderbolt  fell  in  the 
rout  of  the  Prussian  army  at  Jena.  Napoleon's  victorious 
troops  pressed  on  to  Berlin  and  the  Prussian  court  re- 
treated with  the  tide  of  fugitives  to  Konigsberg.  Kleist 
was  overwhelmed  by  the  misery  of  this  cataclysm,  which, 


HEINRICH  VON  KLEIST  299 

however,  he  had  clearly  foreseen  and  foretold.  With  a 
group  of  friends  he  started  on  foot  for  Dresden,  but  was 
arrested  as  a  spy  at  the  gates  of  Berlin  and  held  for  months 
as  a  prisoner  in  French  fortresses,  before  the  energetic 
efforts  of  Ulrica  and  others  procured  his  release. 

Late  in  July,  1807,  he  finally  arrived  in  Dresden,  where 
he  remained  until  April,  1809.  These  were  the  happiest 
and  the  most  prolific  months  of  his  fragmentary  life.  The 
best  literary  and  social  circles  of  the  Saxon  capital  were 
open  to  him,  his  talent  was  recognized  by  the  leading  men 
of  the  city,  a  laurel  wreath  was  placed  upon  his  brow  by 
"  the  prettiest  hands  in  Dresden;  "  at  last  he  found  all  his 
hopes  being  realized.  With  three  friends  he  embarked  on 
an  ambitious  publishing  enterprise,  w^hich  included  the 
issuing  of  a  sumptuous  literary  and  artistic  monthly,  the 
Phoebus.  This  venture  was  foredoomed  to  failure  by  the 
inexperience  of  its  projectors  and  by  the  unsettled  con- 
dition of  a  time  full  of  political  upheaval  and  most  unfavor- 
able to  any  literary  enterprise.  Kleist's  own  contributions 
to  this  periodical  w^ere  of  the  highest  value ;  here  appeared 
first  in  print  generous  portions  of  Penthesilea,  The  Broken 
Jug,  and  the  new  drama  Kitty  of  Heilbronn,  the  first  act 
of  the  ill-fated  Robert  Guiscard,  evidently  reproduced  from 
memory.  The  Marquise  of  0.,  and  part  of  Michael  Kohl- 
haas.  If  we  add  to  these  works  the  great  patriotic 
drama,  Arminius  {Die  Hermannsschlacht) ,  two  tales.  The 
Betrothal  in  San  Domingo  and  The  Foundling,  and  lyric 
and  narrative  poems,  the  production  of  the  brief  period  in 
Dresden  is  seen  to  bulk  very  large. 

In  the  stress  of  the  times  and  in  spite  of  the  most  strenu- 
ous efforts,  the  Phoebus  w^ent  under  with  the  first  volume, 
and  the  publishing  business  was  a  total  wreck.  Kleist's 
joy  at  the  acceptance  of  The  Broken  Jug  by  Goethe  for  the 
AVeimar  theatre  was  turned  to  bitterness  when,  because  of 
unintelligent  acting  and  stage  management,  this  brilliant 
comedy  failed  wretchedly;  the  disappointed  author  held 
Goethe  responsible  for  this  fiasco  and  foolishly  attacked 


300  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

him  in  a  series  of  spiteful  epigrams.  He  longed  to  have 
his  Arminius  performed  at  Vienna,  but  the  Austrian 
authorities  were  too  timid  to  risk  the  production  of  a  play- 
that  openly  preached  German  unity  and  a  war  of  revenge 
against  the  '*  Roman  tyranny  "  of  Napoleon.  Kleist  then 
turned  to  lyric  poetry  and  polemic  tirades  for  the  expres- 
sion of  his  patriotic  ardor.  When  Austria  rose  against 
Napoleon,  he  started  for  the  seat  of  war  and  was  soon  the 
happy  eye-witness  of  the  Austrian  victory  at  Aspern,  in 
May,  1809.  In  Prague,  with  the  support  of  the  command- 
ant, he  planned  a  patriotic  journal,  for  which  he  imme- 
diately wrote  a  series  of  glowing  articles,  mostly  in  the 
fonn  of  political  satires.  This  plan  was  wrecked  by  the 
decisive  defeat  of  the  Austrians  at  Wagram  in  July. 

Broken  by  these  successive  disasters,  Kleist  again  fell 
seriously  ill;  for  four  months  his  friends  had  no  word 
from  him,  and  reports  of  his  death  were  current.  In 
November,  1809,  he  came  to  Frankfort-on-the-Oder  to  dis- 
pose of  his  share  in  the  family  home  as  a  last  means  of 
raising  funds,  and  again  disappeared.  In  January,  1810, 
he  passed  through  Frankfort  on  the  way  to  Berlin,  to  which 
the  Prussian  court,  now  subservient  to  Napoleon,  had  re- 
turned. He  found  many  old  friends  in  Berlin,  and  even 
had  prospects  of  recognition  from  the  court,  as  the  brave 
and  beautiful  Queen  Louise  was  very  kindly  disposed 
toward  him.  Again  he  turned  to  dramatic  production,  and 
in  the  patriotic  Prussian  play.  Prince  Frederick  of  Hom- 
hurrj,  created  his  masterpiece.  Fortune  seemed  once  more 
to  be  smiling  upon  the  dramatist;  the  Prince  of  Homburg 
was  to  be  dedicated  to  Queen  Louise,  and  performed  pri- 
vately at  the  palace  of  Prince  Radziwill,  before  being  given 
at  the  National  Theatre.  But  again  the  cup  of  success  was 
dashed  from  the  poet's  lips.  With  the  death  of  Queen 
Louise,  in  July,  1810,  he  lost  his  only  powerful  friend  at 
court,  and  now  found  it  impossible  to  get  a  hearing  for  his 
drama. 

Other  disappointments  came  in  rapid  succession.    Kitty 


»>t--w4' 


'mn 


bis  .A' 
authorities  were  t 

oi  rev; 

to  lyri 
sion  of  his  patri 
"Napoleon,  ' 

happy  eye  

May,  1809.     In  I' 

SARCOPHAGUS    OF   QUEEN    LOUISE   IN    THE    MAUSOLEUM 
.Lately   ^ivi^  ti  ATiCHARLOTTEgBy,^G 
form  of  political  satlr!  ~  r'-     - 

decisive  defeat  of  the 

Broken  by  these  s  i  again  teii 

seriously  ill;  for  fou  "o  word 

from  him,  and  repo.  ••*:      Tn 

November,  1809,  he  camo 


ann 


Sculptor.  Christian  Ra, 
roT^  striiT.nj;'     ;*nM  fi 


r  disapi 


HEINRICH  VON  KLEIST  301 

of  Heilbronn,  performed  after  many  delays  at  Vienna, 
was  not  a  success,  and  Iffland,  the  popular  dramatist  and 
director  of  the  Berlin  Theatre,  rejected  this  play,  while 
accepting  all  manner  of  commonplace  works  by  inferior 
authors.  The  famous  publisher  Cotta  did  print  Pen- 
thesilea,  but  was  so  displeased  with  it  that  he  made  no 
effort  to  sell  the  edition,  and  Kitty  of  Heilbronn,  declined 
by  Cotta,  fell  flat  when  it  was  printed  in  Berlin.  Two 
volumes  of  tales,  including  some  masterpieces  in  this 
form,  hardly  fared  better;  the  new  numbers  in  this  col- 
lection were  The  Duel,  The  Beggar  Woman  of  Locarno,  and 
Saint  Cecilia.  Again  the  much-tried  poet  turned  to  jour- 
nalism. From  October,  1810,  until  March,  1811,  with  the 
assistance  of  the  popular  philosopher  Adam  Miiller  and 
the  well-known  romantic  authors  Arnim,  Brentano,  and 
Fouque,  he  published  a  politico-literary  journal  appearing 
five  times  a  week.  The  enterprise  began  well,  and  aroused 
a  great  deal  of  interest.  Gradually,  however,  the  censor- 
ship of  a  government  that  was  at  once  timid  and  tyrannical 
limited  the  scope  and  destroyed  the  effectiveness  of  the 
paper,  and  Kleist  spent  himself  in  vain  efforts  to  keep  it 
alive.  The  poet  now  found  himself  in  a  desperate  predica- 
ment, financially  ruined  by  the  failure  of  all  his  enterprises, 
and  discredited  with  the  government,  from  which  he  vainly 
sought  some  reparation  for  the  violence  done  to  his  journal; 
worst  of  all,  he  found  himself  without  honor  at  home,  where 
he  was  looked  upon  as  a  ne'er-do-well  and  a  disgrace  to 
the  reputation  of  a  fine  old  military  family.  As  a  last 
resort  he  applied  for  reinstatement  in  the  army,  it  being 
a  time  when  Prussia  seemed  to  be  girding  herself  for 
another  struggle  with  Napoleon.  But  the  attempt  to  bor- 
row enough  money  for  his  military  equipment  failed,  and 
he  found  no  sympathy  or  support  on  a  final  visit  to  his 
family  in  Frankfort.  In  October,  1811,  the  patriotic  men 
who  had  been  quietly  preparing  for  the  inevitable  war  of 
liberation  were  horrified  by  the  movement  of  the  Prussian 
government  toward  another  alliance  with  Napoleon;  and 


302  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

Kleist  felt  it  impossible  to  enter  an  army  that  might  at 
any  moment  be  ordered  to  support  the  arch-enemy  of  his 
country.     His  case  had  become  utterly  hopeless. 

At  this  juncture  the  unfortunate  poet  found  what  he  had 
so  often  sought  in  his  crises  of  despair  —  a  companion  in 
suicide.  Through  Adam  Miiller  he  had  become  acquainted 
with  Henrietta  Vogel,  an  intelligent  woman  of  romantic 
temperament,  who  was  doomed  by  an  incurable  disease  to 
a  life  of  suffering.  She  listened  eagerly  to  Kleist 's  sug- 
gestions of  an  escape  together  from  the  intolerable  ills  of 
life.  The  two  drove  from  Berlin  to  a  solitary  inn  on  the 
shore  of  the  Wannsee,  near  Potsdam ;  here  Kleist  wrote  a 
touching  farewell  letter  to  his  sister,  and,  on  the  afternoon 
of  November  21,  1811,  after  the  most  deliberate  prepara- 
tions, the  companions  strolled  into  the  silent  pine  woods, 
where  Kleist  took  Henrietta's  life  and  then  his  own.  In 
the  same  lonely  place  his  grave  was  dug,  and  here  the 
greatest  Prussian  poet  lay  forgotten,  after  the  brief,  though 
violent,  sensation  of  his  tragic  end ;  half  a  century  elapsed 
before  a  Prussian  prince  set  up  a  simple  granite  monument 
to  mark  the  grave.  Ten  years  passed  after  Kleist 's  death 
before  his  last  great  dramas,  Arminius  and  the  Prince  of 
Homhurg,  were  published,  edited  by  the  eminent  poet  and 
critic  Ludwig  Tieck,  who  also  brought  out,  in  1826,  the  first 
collection  of  Kleist 's  works.  Long  before  this  time,  the 
patriotic  uprising  for  which  he  had  labored  with  desperate 
zeal  in  his  later  works,  had  brought  liberation  to  Germany ; 
it  was  on  the  thirty-sixth  anniversary  of  Kleist 's  birth  that 
Napoleon's  power  was  shaken  by  the  decisive  Battle  of 
Leipzig. 

Heinrich  von  Kleist  was  born  into  a  generation  that  was 
dominated  by  the  spirit  of  Romanticism.  Tieck  and  the 
Schlegels  were  a  few  years  older,  Fouque  was  of  the  same 
age  as  he,  and  Arnim  and  Brentano  somewhat  younger. 
His  acquaintance  was  largely  with  the  authors  who  repre- 
sented this  tendency.  In  his  own  works,  however,  Kleist 
was  singularly  independent  of  the  romantic  influence.    This 


HEINRICH  VON  KLEIST  303 

is  the  more  remarkable  inasmuch  as  his  character  had  many- 
traits  in  common  with  the  ardent  spirits  of  the  Romantic 
group.  His  uncompromising  individualism  and  overween- 
ing ambition,  his  love  of  travel,  his  enthusiastic  acceptance 
of  Rousseau's  gospel  of  Nature,  are  characteristically 
Romantic,  and  so,  we  may  say,  is  his  passionate  patriotism. 
Eccentricities  he  had  in  plenty ;  there  was  something  mor- 
bid in  his  excessive  reserve,  his  exaggerated  secretiveness 
about  the  most  important  interests  of  his  life,  as  there 
surely  was  in  his  moroseness,  which  deepened  at  times  into 
black  despair.  Goethe  was  most  unpleasantly  impressed 
by  this  abnormal  quality  of  Kleist's  personality,  and  said 
of  the  younger  poet :  *  *  In  spite  of  my  honest  desire  to 
sympathize  with  him,  I  could  not  avoid  a  feeling  of  horror 
and  loathing,  as  of  a  body  beautifully  endowed  by  nature, 
but  infected  with  an  incurable  disease.**  That  this  judg- 
ment was  unduly  harsh  is  evident  enough  from  the  con- 
fidence and  affection  that  Kleist  inspired  in  many  of  the 
best  men  of  his  time. 

Whatever  may  have  been  Kleist's  personal  peculiarities, 
his  works  give  evidence  of  the  finest  artistic  sanity  and  con- 
science. His  acute  sense  of  literary  form  sets  him  off 
from  the  whole  generation  of  Romanticists,  who  held  the 
author's  personal  caprice  to  be  the  supreme  law  of  poetry, 
and  most  of  whose  important  works  were  either  medleys 
or  fragments.  He  was  his  own  severest  critic,  and  labored 
over  his  productions,  as  he  did  over  his  own  education, 
with  untiring  energy  and  intense  concentration.  A  less 
scrupulous  author  would  not  have  destroyed  the  manu- 
script of  Robert  Guiscard  because  he  could  not  keep 
throughout  its  action  the  splendid  promise  of  the  first  act. 
His  works  are  usually  marked  by  rare  logical  and  artistic 
consistency.  Seldom  is  there  any  interruption  of  the  unity 
and  simple  directness  of  his  actions  by  sub-plots  or  epi- 
sodes, and  he  scorned  the  easy  theatrical  devices  by  which 
the  successful  playwrights  of  his  day  gained  their  effects. 
Whether  in  drama  or  story,  his  action  grows  naturally  out 


304  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

of  the  characters  and  the  situations.  Hence  the  marvelous 
fact  that  his  dramas  can  be  performed  with  hardly  an  alter- 
ation, though  the  author,  never  having  seen  any  of  them  on 
the  stage,  lacked  the  practical  experience  by  which  most 
dramatists  learn  the  technique  of  their  art. 

Kleist  evidently  studied  the  models  of  classical  art  with 
care.  His  unerring  sense  of  form,  his  artistic  restraint  in 
a  day  when  caprice  was  the  ruling  fashion,  and  the  con- 
ciseness of  his  expression,  are  doubtless  due  to  classical 
influence.  But,  at  the  same  time,  he  was  an  innovator,  one 
of  the  first  forerunners  of  modern  realism.  He  describes 
and  characterizes  with  careful,  often  microscopic  detail; 
his  psychological  analysis  is  remarkably  exact  and  incisive ; 
and  he  fearlessly  uses  the  ugly  or  the  trivial  when  either 
better  serves  his  purpose. 

In  all  the  varied  volume  of  Kleist 's  works,  there  is  very 
little  that  is  mediocre  or  negligible.  The  Schroffenstein 
Family,  to  be  sure,  is  prentice  work,  but  it  can  bear  com- 
parison with  the  first  plays  of  the  greatest  dramatists.  The 
fragment  of  Bohert  Guiscard  is  masterly  in  its  rapid  cumu- 
lative exposition,  representing  the  hero,  idolized  by  his 
troops,  as  stricken  with  the  plague  when  the  crowning  glory 
of  his  military  career  seems  to  be  within  his  grasp;  while 
the  discord  between  Guiscard 's  son  and  nephew  presages 
an  irrepressible  family  conflict.  The  style,  as  Wieland  felt 
when  he  listened  with  rapture  to  the  author's  recital,  is  a 
blend  of  classical  and  Elizabethan  art.  The  opening  chorus 
of  the  people,  the  formal  balanced  speeches,  the  analytical 
action,  beginning  on  the  verge  of  the  catastrophe,  are  traits 
borrowed  from  Greek  tragedy.  On  the  other  hand,  there 
is  much  realistic  characterization  and  a  Shakespearian 
variety  and  freedom  of  tone.  The  Broken  Jug,  too,  is 
analytical  in  its  conduct.  Almost  from  the  first  it  is  evi- 
dent that  Adam,  the  village  judge,  is  himself  the  culprit 
in  the  case  at  trial  in  his  court,  and  the  comic  efforts  of 
the  arch-rascal  to  squirm  out  of  the  inevitable  discovery 
only  serve  to  make  his  guilt  the  surer.     In  this  comedy  the 


HEINRICH  VON  KLEIST  305 

blank  verse  adapts  itself  to  all  the  turns  of  familiar  humor- 
ous dialogue,  and  the  effect  of  the  Dutch  genre-paintings 
of  Teniers  or  Jan  Steen  is  admirably  reproduced  in  dra- 
matic form.  The  slowly  moving  action,  constantly  revert- 
ing to  past  incidents,  makes  a  successful  performance  diffi- 
cult; the  fate  of  this  work  on  the  stage  has  depended  upon 
finding  an  actor  capable  of  bringing  out  all  the  possibilities 
in  the  part  of  Adam,  who  is  a  masterpiece  of  comic  self- 
characterization. 

Penthesilea  is  a  work  apart.  Passionate,  headlong, 
almost  savage,  is  the  character  of  the  queen  of  the  Amazons, 
yet  wonderfully  sweet  in  its  gentler  moods  and  glorified 
^^dth  the  golden  glow  of  high  poetry.  Nothing  could  be 
further  removed  from  the  pseudo-classical  manner  of  the 
eighteenth  century  than  this  modern  and  individual  inter- 
pretation of  the  old  mythical  story  of  Penthesilea  and 
Achilles,  between  whom  love  breaks  forth  in  the  midst  of 
mortal  combat.  The  clash  of  passions  creates  scenes  in 
this  drama  that  transcend  the  humanly  and  dramatically 
permissible.  Yet  there  is  a  wealth  of  imaginative  beauty 
and  emotional  melody  in  this  tragedy  beyond  anything  in 
Kleist's  other  works.  It  was  written  with  his  heart's 
blood;  in  it  he  uttered  all  the  yearning  and  frenzy  of  his 
first  passion  for  the  unattainable  and  ruined  masterpiece 
GuiiiCard. 

Kitty  of  Heilhronn  stands  almost  at  the  opposite  pole 
from  Penthesilea.  The  pathos  of  Griselda's  unquestion- 
ing self-abnegation  is  her  portion;  she  is  the  extreme 
expression  of  the  docile  quality  that  Kleist  sought  in  his 
betrothed.  Instead  of  the  fabled  scenes  of  Homeric  com- 
bat, we  have  here  as  a  setting  the  richly  romantic  and 
colorful  life  of  the  age  of  chivalry.  The  form,  too,  is  far 
freer  and  more  expansive,  with  an  unconventional  mingling 
of  verse  and  prose. 

The  last  two  plays  were  born  of  the  spirit  that  brought 
forth  the  War  of  Liberation.  In  them  Kleist  gave  undying 
expression  to  his  ardent  patriotism;  it  was  his  deepest 

Vol.  IV  — 20 


306  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

grief  that  these  martial  dramas  were  not  pennitted  to  sound 
their  trmnpet-call  to  a  hmnbled  nation  yearning  to  be  free. 
Arminius  is  a  great  dramatized  philippic.  The  ancient 
Gennauic  chiefs  Marbod  and  Arminius,  representing  in 
Kleist's  intention  the  Austria  and  Prussia  of  his  day,  are 
animated  by  one  common  patriotic  impulse,  rising  far  above 
their  mutual  rivalries,  to  cast  off  the  hateful  and  oppressive 
yoke  of  Eome ;  and  after  the  decisive  victory  over  Varus  in 
the  Teutoburg  Forest,  each  of  these  strong  chiefs  is  ready 
in  devoted  self-denial  to  yield  the  primacy  to  the  other,  in 
order  that  all  Germans  may  stand  together  against  the 
common  foe.  Prince  Frederick  of  Homhurg  is  a  dramatic 
glorification  of  the  Prussian  virtues  of  discipline  and  obedi- 
ence. But  the  finely  drawn  characters  of  this  play  are  by 
no  means  rigid  martinets.  They  are  largely,  frankly,  gen- 
erously human,  confessing  the  right  of  feeling  as  well  as 
reason  to  direct  the  will.  Never  has  there  been  a  more 
sympathetic  literary  exposition  of  the  soldierly  character 
than  this  last  tribute  of  a  devoted  patriot  to  his  beloved 
Brandenburg. 

The  narrative  works  of  Kleist  maintain  the  same  high 
level  as  his  dramas.  Michael  Kohlhaas  is  a  good  example 
of  this  excellent  narrative  art,  for  which  Kleist  found  no' 
models  in  German  literature.  Unity  is  a  striking  character- 
istic ;  the  action  can  usually  be  summed  up  in  a  few  words, 
such  as  the  formula  for  this  story,  given  expressly  on  its 
first  page:  ''  His  sense  of  justice  made  him  a  robber  and 
a  murderer."  There  is  no  leisurely  exposition  of  time, 
place,  or  situation;  all  the  necessary  elements  are  given 
concisely  in  the  first  sentences.  The  action  develops  logic- 
ally, with  effective  use  of  retardation  and  climax,  but  with- 
out disturbing  episodes ;  and  the  reader  is  never  permitted 
to  forget  the  central  theme.  The  descriptive  element  is 
realistic,  with  only  pertinent  details  swiftly  presented, 
often  in  parentheses,  while  the  action  moves  on.  The 
characterization  is  skilfully  indirect,  through  unconscious 
action  and  speech.     The  author  does  not  shun  the  trivial 


HEINRICH  VON  KLEIST  307 

or  even  the  repulsive  in  detail,  nor  does  he  fear  the  most 
tragic  catastrophes.  He  is  scrupulously  objective,  and,  in 
an  age  of  expansive  lyric  expression,  he  is  most  chary  of 
comment.  The  sentence  structure,  as  in  the  dramas,  is 
often  intricate,  but  never  lax.  The  whole  work  in  all  its 
parts  is  firmly  and  finely  forged  by  a  master  workman. 

Kleist  has  remained  a  solitary  figure  in  German  litera- 
ture. Owing  little  to  the  dominant  literary  influences  of  his 
day,  he  has  also  found  few  imitators.  Two  generations 
passed  before  he  began  to  come  into  his  heritage  of  legiti- 
mate fame.  Now  that  a  full  century  has  elapsed  since  his 
tragic  death,  his  place  is  well  assured  among  the  greatest 
dramatic  and  narrative  authors  of  Germany.  A  brave 
man  struggling  desperately  against  hopeless  odds,  a  patriot 
expending  his  genius  with  lavish  unselfishness  for  the 
service  of  his  country  in  her  darkest  days,  he  has  been  found 
worthy  by  posterity  to  stand  as  the  most  famous  son  of  a 
faithful  Prussian  family  of  soldiers. 


HEINRICH  VON  KLEIST 


MICHAEL  KOHLHAAS    (1808) 

A  Tale  from  an  Old  Chronicle 

TRANSLATED  BY  FRANCES  H.  KING 

[OWARD  the  middle  of  the  sixteenth  century 
there  lived  on  the  banks  of  the  river  Havel 
a  horse-dealer  by  the  name  of  Michael  Kohl- 
haas,  the  son  of  a  school-master,  one  of  the 
most  upright  and,  at  the  same  time,  one  of 
the  most  terrible  men  of  his  day.  Up  to  his  thirtieth  year 
this  extraordinary  man  would  have  been  considered  the 
model  of  a  good  citizen.  In  a  village  which  still  bears  his 
name,  he  owned  a  farmstead  on..which  he  quietly  supported 
himself  by  plying  his  tradey^The  children  ^vith  whom  his 
wife  presented  him  were  brought  up  in  the  fear  of  God, 
and  taught  to  be  industrious  and  honest ;  nor  was  there  one 
among  his  neighbors  who  had  not  enjoyed  the  benefit  of 
his  kindness  or  his  justice.  In  short,  the  world  would  have 
had  every  reason  to  bless  his  memory  if  he  had  not  carried 
to  excess  one  virtue  —  his  sense  of  justice,  which  made  of 
\him  a  robber  and  a  murderer. 

He  rode  abroad  once  with  a  string  of  young  horses,  all 
well  fed  and  glossy-coated,  and  was  turning  over  in  his 
mind  how  he  would  employ  the  profit  that  he  hoped  to 
make  from  them  at  the  fairs ;  part  of  it,  as  is  the  way  with 
good  managers,  he  would  use  to  gain  future  profits,  but 
he  would  also  spend  part  of  it  in  the  enjoyment  of  the 
present.  While  thus  engaged  he  reached  the  Elbe,  and 
near  a  stately  castle,  situated  on  Saxon  territory,  he  came 
upon  a  toll-bar  which  he  had  never  found  on  this  road 
before.    Just  in  the  midst  of  a  heavy  shower  he  halted  with 

[308] 


MICHAEL  KOHLHAAS  309 

his  horses  and  called  to  the  toll-gate  keeper,  who  soon  after 
showed  his  surly  face  at  the  window.  The  horse-dealer 
told  him  to  open  the  gate.  ' '  What  new  arrangement  is 
this?  "  he  asked,  when  the  toll-gatherer,  after  some  time, 
finally  came  out  of  the  house. 

"  Seignorial  privilege  "  answered  the  latter,  unlocking 
the  gate,  * '  conferred  by  the  sovereign  upon  Squire  Wenzel 
Tronka." 

''  Is  that  so?  "  queried  Kohlhaas;  ''  the  Squire's  name  is 
now  Wenzel?  "  and  gazed  at  the  castle,  the  glittering  bat- 
tlements of  which  looked  out  over  the  field.  *'  Is  the  old 
gentleman  dead?  " 

'^  Died  of  apoplexy,"  answered  the  gate  keeper,  as  he 
raised  the  toll-bar. 

*'Hum!  Too  bad!  "  rejoined  Kohlhaas.  "An  estimable 
old  gentleman  he  was,  who  liked  to  watch  people  come  and 
go,  and  helped  along  trade  and  traffic  wherever  he  could. 
He  once  had  a  causeway  built  because  a  mare  of  mine  had 
broken  her  leg  out  there  on  the  road  leading  to  the  village. 
Well,  how  much  is  it?  "  he  asked,  and  with  some  trouble 
got  out  the  few  groschen  demanded  by  the  gate  keeper  from 
under  his  cloak,  which  was  fluttering  in  the  wind.  '*  Yes, 
old  man,"  he  added,  picking  up  the  leading  reins  as  the 
latter  muttered  "  Quick,  quick!  "  and  cursed  the  weather; 
"  if  this  tree  had  remained  standing  in  the  forest  it  would 
have  been  better  for  me  and  for  you. ' '  With  this  he  gave 
him  the  money,  and  started  to  ride  on. 

He  had  hardly  passed  under  the  toll-bar,  however,  when 
a  new  voice  cried  out  from  the  tower  behind  him,  ''  Stop 
there,  horse-dealer!  "  and  he  saw  the  castellan  close  a 
window  and  come  hurrying  down  to  him.  ' '  Well,  I  wonder 
what  he  wants !  ' '  Kohlhaas  asked  himself,  and  halted  with 
his  horses.  Buttoning  another  waistcoat  over  his  ample 
body,  the  castellan  came  up  to  him  and,  standing  with  his 
back  to  the  storm,  demanded  his  passport. 

''  My  passport?  "  queried  Kohlhaas.  Somewhat  discon- 
certed, he  replied  that  he  had  none,  so  far  as  he  knew,  but 


310  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

that,  if  some  one  would  just  describe  to  him  what  in  the 
name  of  goodness  this  was,  perhaps  he  might  accidentally 
happen  to  have  one  about  him.  The  castellan,  eying  him 
askance,  retorted  that  without  an  official  permit  no  horse- 
dealer  was  allowed  to  cross  the  border  with  horses.  The 
horse-dealer  assured  him  that  seventeen  times  in  his  life 
he  had  crossed  the  border  without  such  a  permit;  that  he 
was  well  acquainted  mth  all  the  official  regulations  which 
applied  to  his  trade;  that  this  would  probably  prove  to  be 
only  a  mistake;  the  castellan  would  please  consider  the 
matter  and,  since  he  had  a  long  day's  journey  before  him, 
not  detain  him  here  unnecessarily  any  longer.  But  the 
castellan  answered  that  he  was  not  going  to  slip  through 
the  eighteenth  time,  that  the  ordinance  concerning  this  mat- 
ter had  been  only  recently  issued,  and  that  he  must  either 
procure  the  passport  here  or  go  back  to  the  place  from 
which  he  had  come.  After  a  moment 's  reflection,  the  horse- 
dealer,  who  was  beginning  to  feel  bitter,  got  down  from 
his  horse,  turned  it  over  to  a  groom,  and  said  that  he  would 
speak  to  Squire  Tronka  himself  on  the  subject.  He  really 
did  walk  toward  the  castle;  the  castellan  followed  him, 
muttering  something  about  niggardly  money-grubbers,  and 
what  a  good  thing  it  was  to  bleed  them;  and,  measuring 
each  other  with  their  glances,  the  two  entered  the  castle- 
hall. 

It  happened  that  the  Squire  was  sitting  over  his  wine 
with  some  merry  friends,  and  a  joke  had  caused  them  all 
to  break  into  uproarious  laughter  just  as  Kohlhaas  ap- 
proached him  to  make  his  complaint.  The  Squire  asked 
what  he  wanted ;  the  young  nobles,  at  sight  of  the  stranger, 
became  silent;  but  no  sooner  had  the  latter  broached  his 
request  concerning  the  horses,  than  the  whole  group  cried 
out,  **  Horses!  Where  are  they  I  "  and  hurried  over  to  the 
window  to  look  at  them.  When  they  saw  the  glossy  string, 
they  all  followed  the  suggestion  of  the  Squire  and  flew  down 
into  the  courtyard.  The  rain  had  ceased ;  the  castellan,  the 
steward,  and  the  servant  gathered  round  them  and  all 


MICHAEL  KOHLHAAS  311 

scanned  the  horses.  One  praised  a  bright  bay  with  a  white 
star  on  its  forehead,  another  preferred  a  chestnut,  a  third 
patted  the  dappled  horse  with  tawny  spots ;  and  all  were  of 
the  opinion  that  the  horses  were  like  deer,  and  that  no  finer 
were  raised  in  the  country.  Kohlhaas  answered  cheerily 
that  the  horses  were  no  better  than  the  knights  who  were  to 
ride  them,  and  invited  the  men  to  buy.  The  Squire,  who 
eagerly  desired  the  big  bay  stallion,  went  so  far  as  to  ask 
its  price,  and  the  steward  urged  him  to  buy  a  pair  of  black 
horses,  which  he  thought  he  could  use  on  the  farm,  as  they 
were  short  of  horses.  But  when  the  horse-dealer  had 
named  his  price  the  young  knights  thought  it  too  high,  and 
the  Squire  said  that  Kohlhaas  w^ould  have  to  ride  in  search 
of  the  Round  Table  and  King  Arthur  if  he  put  such  a  high 
value  on  his  horses.  Kohlhaas  noticed  that  the  castellan 
and  the  steward  were  whispering  together  and  casting  sig- 
nificant glances  at  the  black  horses  the  while,  and,  moved 
by  a  vague  presentiment,  made  every  effort  to  sell  them  the 
horses.  He  said  to  the  Squire,  "  Sir,  I  bought  those  black 
horses  six  months  ago  for  twenty-five  gold  gulden ;  give  me 
thirty  and  you  shall  have  them. ' '  Two  of  the  young  noble- 
men who  were  standing  beside  the  Squire  declared  quite 
audibly  that  the  horses  were  probably  worth  that  much; 
but  the  Squire  said  that  while  he  might  be  willing  to  pay 
out  money  for  the  bay  stallion  he  really  should  hardly  care 
to  do  so  for  the  pair  of  blacks,  and  prepared  to  go  in. 
Whereupon  Kohlhaas,  saying  that  the  next  time  he  came 
that  way  with  his  horses  they  might  perhaps  strike  a  bar- 
gain, took  leave  of  the  Squire  and,  seizing  the  reins  of  his 
horse,  started  to  ride  away. 

At  this  moment  the  castellan  stepped  forth  from  the 
crowd  and  reminded  him  that  he  would  not  be  allowed  to 
leave  without  a  passport.  Kohlhaas  turned  around  and 
inquired  of  the  Squire  whether  this  statement,  which  meant 
the  ruin  of  his  whole  trade,  were  indeed  correct.  The 
Squire,  as  he  went  off,  answered  with  an  embarrassed  air, 
"  Yes,  Kohlhaas,  you  must  get  a  passport.     Speak  to  the 


312  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

castellan  about  it,  and  go  your  way."  Kohlhaas  assured 
him  that  he  had  not  the  least  intention  of  evading  the 
ordinances  which  might  be  in  force  concerning  the  expor- 
tation of  horses.  He  promised  that  when  he  went  through 
Dresden  he  would  take  out  the  passport  at  the  chancery, 
and  begged  to  be  allowed  to  go  on,  this  time,  as  he  had 
kno^\Ti  nothing  whatever  about  this  requirement.  **  Well !  " 
said  the  Squire,  as  the  storm  at  that  moment  began  to  rage 
again  and  the  Avind  blustered  about  his  scrawny  legs ;  'Met 
the  wretch  go.  Come !  "  he  added  to  the  young  knights, 
and,  turning  around,  started  toward  the  door.  The  cas- 
tellan, facing  about  toward  the  Squire,  said  that  Kohlhaas 
must  at  least  leave  behind  some  pledge  as  security  that  he 
would  obtain  the  passport.  The  Squire  stopped  again 
under  the  castle  gate.  Kohlhaas  asked  how  much  security 
for  the  black  horses  in  money  or  in  articles  of  value  he 
would  be  expected  to  leave.  The  steward  muttered  in  his 
beard  that  he  might  just  as  well  leave  the  blacks  themselves. 

''  To  be  sure,"  said  the  castellan;  "  that  is  the  best  plan; 
as  soon  as  he  has  taken  out  the  passport  he  can  come  and 
get  them  again  at  any  time. ' '  Kohlhaas,  amazed  at  such  a 
shameless  demand,  told  the  Squire,  who  was  holding  the 
skirts  of  his  doublet  about  him  for  warmth,  that  what  he 
wanted  to  do  was  to  sell  the  blacks ;  but  as  a  gust  of  wind 
just  then  blew  a  torrent  of  rain  and  hail  through  the  gate, 
the  Squire,  in  order  to  put  an  end  to  the  matter,  called  out, 
'  *  If  he  won 't  give  up  the  horses,  throw  him  back  again  over 
the  toll-bar ;  ' '  and  with  that  he  went  off. 

The  horse-dealer,  who  saw  clearly  that  on  this  occasion 
he  would  have  to  yield  to  superior  force,  made  up  his  mind 
to  comply  with  the  demand,  since  there  really  was  no  other 
way  out  of  it.  He  unhitched  the  black  horses  and  led  them 
into  a  stable  Miiich  the  castellan  pointed  out  to  him.  He 
left  a  groom  in  charge  of  them,  provided  him  with  money, 
warned  him  to  take  good  care  of  the  horses  until  he  came 
back,  and  with  the  rest  of  the  string  continued  his  journey 
to  Leipzig,  where  he  purposed  to  go  to  the  fair.     As  he 


MICHAEL  KOHLHAAS  313 

rode  along  he  wondered,  in  half  uncertainty,  whether  after 
all  such  a  law  might  not  have  been  passed  in  Saxony  for 
the  protection  of  the  newly  started  industry  of  horse- 
raising. 

On  his  arrival  in  Dresden,  where,  in  one  of  the  suburbs 
of  the  city,  he  owned  a  house  and  stable  —  this  being  the 
headquarters  from  which  he  usually  conducted  his  business 
at  the  smaller  fairs  around  the  country  —  he  went  imme- 
diately to  the  chancery.  And  here  he  learned  from  the 
councilors,  some  of  whom  he  knew,  that  indeed,  as  his  first 
instinct  had  already  told  him,  the  story  of  the  passport 
was  only  made  up.  At  Kohlhaas's  request,  the  annoyed 
councilors  gave  him  a  written  certificate  of  its  baselessness, 
and  the  horse-dealer  smiled  at  the  lean  Squire's  joke, 
although  he  did  not  quite  see  what  purpose  he  could  have 
had  in  view.  A  few  weeks  later,  having  sold  to  his  satisfac- 
tion the  string  of  horses  he  had  with  him,  Kohlhaas  returned 
to  Tronka  Castle  harboring  no  other  resentment  save  that 
caused  by  the  general  misery  of  the  world. 

The  castellan,  to  whom  he  showed  the  certificate,  made  no 
comment  upon  it,  and  to  the  horse-dealer's  question  as  to 
whether  he  could  now  have  his  horses  back,  replied  that  he 
need  only  go  down  to  the  stable  and  get  them.  But  even 
while  crossing  the  courtyard,  Kohlhaas  learned  with  dis- 
may that  for  alleged  insolence  his  groom  had  been  cudgeled 
and  dismissed  in  disgrace  a  few  days  after  being  left  be- 
hind at  Tronka  Castle.  Of  the  boy  who  informed  him  of 
this  he  inquired  what  in  the  world  the  groom  had  done,  and 
who  had  taken  care  of  the  horses  in  the  mean  time ;  to  this 
the  boy  answered  that  he  did  not  know,  and  then  opened 
to  the  horse-dealer,  whose  heart  was  already  full  of  mis- 
givings, the  door  of  the  stable  in  which  the  horses  stood. 
How  great,  though,  was  his  astonishment  when,  instead  of 
his  two  glossy,  well-fed  blacks,  he  spied  a  pair  of  lean, 
worn-out  jades,  with  bones  on  which  one  could  have  hung 
things  as  if  on  pegs,  and  with  mane  and  hair  matted 
together  from  lack  of  care  and  attention  —  in  short,  the 


314  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

very  picture  of  utter  misery  in  the  animal  kingdom !  Kohl- 
haas,  at  the  sight  of  whom  the  horses  neighed  and  moved 
feebly,  was  extremely  indignant,  and  asked  what  had  hap- 
pened to  his  horses.  The  boy,  who  was  standing  beside 
him,  answered  that  they  had  not  suffered  any  harm,  and 
that  they  had  had  proper  feed  too,  but,  as  it  had  been 
harvest  time,  they  had  been  used  a  bit  in  the  fields  because 
there  weren't  draught  animals  enough.  Kohlhaas  cursed 
over  the  shameful,  preconcerted  outrage ;  but  realizing  that 
he  was  powerless  he  suppressed  his  rage,  and,  as  no  other 
course  lay  open  to  him,  was  preparing  to  leave  this  den  of 
thieves  again  ^vith  his  horses  when  the  castellan,  attracted 
by  the  altercation,  appeared  and  asked  what  was  the 
matter. 

^'  'VATiat's  the  matter?  "  echoed  Kohlhaas.  ''  Who  gave 
Squire  Tronka  and  his  people  permission  to  use  for  work 
in  the  fields  the  black  horses  that  I  left  behind  with  him? 
He  added, '  ^  Do  you  call  that  humane  ?  ' '  and  trying  to  rouse 
the  exhausted  nags  with  a  switch,  he  showed  him  that  they 
did  not  move.  The  castellan,  after  he  had  watched  him  for 
a  while  with  an  expression  of  defiance,  broke  out,  "  Look  at 
the  ruffian!  Ought  not  the  churl  to  thank  God  that  the 
jades  are  still  alive?  "  He  asked  who  would  have  been 
expected  to  take  care  of  them  when  the  groom  had  run 
away,  and  whether  it  were  not  just  that  the  horses  should 
have  worked  in  the  fields  for  their  feed.  He  concluded  by 
sajdng  that  Kohlhaas  had  better  not  make  a  rumpus  or  he 
would  call  the  dogs  and  with  them  would  manage  to  restore 
order  in  the  courtyard. 

The  horse-dealer's  heart  thumped  against  his  doublet. 
He  felt  a  strong  desire  to  throw  the  good-for-nothing,  pot- 
bellied scoundrel  into  the  mud  and  set  his  foot  on  his  cop- 
per-colored face.  But  his  sense  of  justice,  which  was  as 
delicate  as  a  gold-balance,  still  wavered;  he  was  not  yet 
quite  sure  before  the  bar  of  his  own  conscience  whether  his 
adversary  were  really  guilty  of  a  crime.  And  so,  swallow- 
ing the  abusive  words  and  going  over  to  the  horses,  he 


MICHAEL  KOHLHAAS  315 

silently  pondered  the  circumstances  while  arranging  their 
manes,  and  asked  in  a  subdued  voice  for  what  fault  the 
groom  had  been  turned  out  of  the  castle.  The  castellan 
replied,  ''  Because  the  rascal  was  insolent  in  the  court- 
yard ;  because  he  opposed  a  necessary  change  of  stables  and 
demanded  that  the  horses  of  two  young  noblemen,  who 
came  to  the  castle,  should,  for  the  sake  of  his  nags,  be  left 
out  on  the  open  high-road  over  night." 

Kohlhaas  would  have  given  the  value  of  the  horses  if 
he  could  have  had  the  groom  at  hand  to  compare  his 
statement  -vvdth  that  of  this  thick-lipped  castellan.  He  was 
still  standing,  straightening  the  tangled  manes  of  the  black 
horses,  and  wondering  what  could  be  done  in  the  situation 
in  which  he  found  himself,  when  suddenly  the  scene 
changed,  and  Squire  "Wenzel  Tronka,  returning  from  hare- 
hunting,  dashed  into  the  courtyard,  followed  by  a  swarm 
of  knights,  grooms,  and  dogs.  The  castellan,  when  asked 
what  had  happened,  immediately  began  to  speak,  and  while, 
on  the  one  hand,  the  dogs  set  up  a  murderous  howl  at  the 
sight  of  the  stranger,  and,  on  the  other,  the  knights  sought 
to  quiet  them,  he  gave  the  Squire  a  maliciously  garbled 
account  of  the  turmoil  the  horse-dealer  was  making  because 
his  black  horses  had  been  used  a  little.  He  said,  with  a 
scornful  laugh,  that  the  horse-dealer  refused  to  recognize 
the  horses  as  his  own. 

Kohlhaas  cried,  "  Your  worship,  those  are  not  my  horses. 
Those  are  not  the  horses  which  were  worth  thirty  gold 
gulden!    I  want  my  well-fed,  sound  horses  back  again!  " 

The  Squire,  whose  face  grew  momentarily  pale,  got  down 

from  his  horse  and  said,  ''  If  the  d d  scoundrel  doesn't 

want  to  take  the  horses  back,  let  him  leave  them  here. 
Come,  Gunther!  "  he  called;  "  Hans,  come!  "  He  brushed 
the  dust  off  his  breeches  with  his  hand  and,  just  as  he 
reached  the  door  mth  the  young  knights,  called  ''  Bring 
wine !  ' '  and  strode  into  the  house. 

Kohlhaas  said  that  he  would  rather  call  the  knacker  and 
have  his  horses  thrown  into  the  carrion  pit  than  lead  them 


316  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

back,  in  that  condition,  to  his  stable  at  Kohlhaasenbriick. 
Without  bothering  himself  further  about  the  nags,  he  left 
them  standing  where  they  were,  and,  declaring  that  he 
should  know  how  to  get  his  rights,  mounted  his  bay  horse 
and  rode  away. 

He  was  already  galloping  at  full  speed  on  the  road  to 
Dresden  when,  at  the  thought  of  the  groom  and  of  the  com- 
plaint which  had  been  made  against  him  at  the  castle,  he 
slowed  down  to  a  walk,  and,  before  he  had  gone  a  thousand 
paces  farther,  turned  his  horse  around  again  and  took  the 
road  toward  Kohlhaasenbriick,  in  order,  as  seemed  to  him 
wise  and  just,  to  hear  first  what  the  groom  had  to  say. 
For  in  spite  of  the  injuries  he  had  suffered,  a  correct 
instinct,  already  familiar  "uith  the  imperfect  organization 
of  the  world,  inclined  him  to  put  up  with  the  loss  of  the 
horses  and  to  regard  it  as  a  just  consequence  of  the  groom's 
misconduct  in  case  there  really  could  be  imputed  to  the 
latter  any  such  fault  as  the  castellan  charged.  On  the  other 
hand,  an  equally  admirable  feeling  took  deeper  and  deeper 
root  the  farther  he  rode,  hearing  at  every  stop  of  the  out- 
rages perpetrated  daily  upon  travelers  at  Tronka  Castle; 
this  instinct  told  him  that  if,  as  seemed  probable,  the  whole 
incident  proved  to  be  a  preconcerted  plot,  it  was  his  duty 
to  the  world  to  make  every  effort  to  obtain  for  himself  satis- 
faction for  the  injury  suffered,  and  for  his  fellow-country- 
men a  guarantee  against  similar  injuries  in  the  future. 

On  his  arrival  at  Kohlhaasenbriick,  as  soon  as  he  had 
embraced  his  faithful  wife  Lisbeth  and  had  kissed  his  chil- 
dren, who  were  shouting  joyfully  about  his  knees,  he  asked 
at  once  after  Herse,  the  head  groom,  and  whether  anything 
had  been  heard  from  him.  Lisbeth  answered,  *'  Oh  yes, 
dearest  Michael  —  that  Herse!  Just  think!  The  poor 
fellow  arrived  here  about  a  fortnight  ago,  most  pitifully 
bruised  and  beaten;  really,  he  was  so  battered  that  he 
couldn  't  even  breathe  freely.  We  put  him  to  bed,  where  he 
kept  coughing  up  blood,  and  after  repeated  questions  we 
heard  a  story  that  no  one  could  understand.    He  told  us  that 


MICHAEL  KOHLHAAS  317 

you  had  left  him  at  Tronka  Castle  in  charge  of  some  horses 
which  they  would  not  allow  to  pass  through  there,  that  by 
the  most  shameful  maltreatment  he  had  been  forced  to 
leave  the  castle,  and  that  it  had  been  impossible  for  him  to 
bring  the  horses  with  him." 

* '  Eeally !  ' '  exclaimed  Kohlhaas,  taking  off  his  cloak. 
"  I  suppose  he  has  recovered  before  this?  " 

'^  Pretty  well,  except  that  he  still  coughs  blood,"  she 
answered.  **  I  wanted  to  send  another  groom  at  once  to 
Tronka  Castle  so  as  to  have  the  horses  taken  care  of  until 
you  got  back  there ;  for  as  Herse  has  always  shown  himself 
truthful  and,  indeed,  more  faithful  to  us  than  any  other 
has  ever  been,  I  felt  I  had  no  right  to  doubt  his  statement, 
especially  when  confirmed  by  so  many  bruises,  or  to  think 
that  perhaps  he  had  lost  the  horses  in  some  other  way.  He 
implored  me,  however,  not  to  require  any  one  to  go  to  that 
robber's  nest,  but  to  give  the  animals  up  if  I  didn't  wish 
to  sacrifice  a  man's  life  for  them." 

''And  is  he  still  abed?  "  asked  Kohlhaas,  taking  off  his 
neckcloth. 

"  He's  been  going  about  in  the  yard  again  for  several 
days  now,"  she  answered.  "  In  short,  you  will  see  for  your- 
self, ' '  she  continued,  ' '  that  it 's  all  quite  true  and  that  this 
incident  is  merely  another  one  of  those  outrages  that  have 
been  committed  of  late  against  strangers  at  Tronka  Castle. " 

"  I  must  first  investigate  that,"  answered  Kohlhaas. 
' '  Call  him  in  here,  Lisbeth,  if  he  is  up  and  about. ' '  With 
these  words  he  sat  down  in  the  arm-chair  and  his  wife, 
delighted  at  his  calmness,  went  and  fetched  the  groom. 

' '  What  did  you  do  at  Tronka  Castle, ' '  asked  Kohlhaas, 
as  Lisbeth  entered  the  room  with  him.  ' '  I  am  not  very  well 
pleased  with  jou. ' ' 

On  the  groom's  pale  face  spots  of  red  appeared  at  these 
words.  He  was  silent  for  a  while  —  then  he  answered, 
* '  You  are  right  there,  Sir ;  for  a  sulphur  cord,  which  by 
the  will  of  Pro\adence  I  was  carrying  in  my  pocket  so  as  to 
set  fire  to  the  robber's  nest  from  which  I  had  been  driven, 


318  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

I  threw  into  the  Elbe  when  I  heard  a  child  crying  inside  the 
castle,  and  I  thought  to  myself,  **  Let  God's  lightning  burn 
it  down;  I  will  not!  " 

Kohlhaas  was  disconcerted.  *'  But  for  what  cause  were 
you  driven  from  the  castle?  "  he  asked. 

To  this  Herse  answered,  * '  Something  very  wrong,  Sir, ' ' 
and  wiped  the  perspiration  from  his  forehead.  "  What  is 
done,  however,  can't  be  undone.  I  wouldn't  let  the  horses 
be  worked  to  death  in  the  fields,  and  so  I  said  that  they 
were  still  young  and  had  never  been  in  harness.** 

Kohlhaas,  trying  to  hide  his  perplexity,  answered  that  he 
had  not  told  the  exact  truth,  as  the  horses  had  been  in  har- 
ness for  a  little  while  in  the  early  part  of  the  previous 
spring.  '*As  you  were  a  sort  of  guest  at  the  castle,"  he 
continued,  "  you  really  might  have  been  obliging  once  or 
twice  whenever  they  happened  not  to  have  horses  enough 
to  get  the  crops  in  as  fast  as  they  wished." 

"I  did  so,  Sir,"  said  Herse.  '*  I  thought,  as  long  as 
they  looked  so  sulky  about  it,  that  it  wouldn't  hurt  the 
blacks  for  once,  and  so  on  the  third  afternoon  I  hitched 
them  in  front  of  the  others  and  brought  in  three  wagon- 
loads  of  grain  from  the  fields." 

Kohlhaas,  whose  heart  was  thumping,  looked  down  at 
the  ground  and  said,  *'  They  told  me  nothing  about  that, 
Herse!  " 

Herse  assured  him  that  it  was  so.  "I  wasn't  disobliging 
save  in  my  refusal  to  harness  up  the  horses  again  when 
they  had  hardly  eaten  their  fill  at  midday;  then  too,  when 
the  castellan  and  the  steward  offered  to  give  me  free  fodder 
if  I  would  do  it,  telling  me  to  pocket  the  money  that  you 
had  left  with  me  to  pay  for  feed,  I  answered  that  I  would 
do  something  they  didn't  bargain  for,  turned  around,  and 
left  them!  " 

'*  But  surely  it  was  not  for  that  disobliging  act  that  you 
were  driven  away  from  the  castle,"  said  Kohlhaas. 

' '  Mercy,  no !  "  cried  the  groom.  '  *  It  was  because  of  a 
very  wicked  crime!     For  the  horses  of  two  knights  who 


MICHAEL  KOHLHAAS  319 

came  to  the  castle  were  put  into  the  stable  for  the  night 
and  mine  were  tied  to  the  stable  door.  And  when  I  took 
the  blacks  from  the  castellan,  who  was  putting  the  knights' 
horses  into  my  stable,  and  asked  where  my  animals  were 
to  go,  he  showed  me  a  pigsty  built  of  laths  and  boards 
against  the  castle  wall." 

''  You  mean,"  interrupted  Kohlhaas,  ''  that  it  was  such 
a  poor  shelter  for  horses  that  it  was  more  like  a  pigsty  than 
a  stable?  " 

*  *  It  was  a  pigsty.  Sir, ' '  answered  Herse ;  * '  really  and 
truly  a  pigsty,  with  the  pigs  running  in  and  out ;  I  couldn  't 
stand  upright  in  it." 

*'  Perhaps  there  was  no  other  shelter  to  be  found  for 
the  blacks,"  Kohlhaas  rejoined;  "  and  of  course,  in  a  way, 
the  knights'  horses  had  the  right  to  better  quarters." 

"  There  w^asn't  much  room,"  answered  the  groom,  drop- 
ping his  voice.  ''  Counting  these  two,  there  were,  in  all, 
seven  knights  lodging  at  the  castle.  If  it  had  been  you,  you 
would  have  had  the  horses  moved  closer  together.  I  said 
I  would  try  to  rent  a  stable  in  the  village,  but  the  castellan 
objected  that  he  had  to  keep  the  horses  under  his  own  eyes 
and  told  me  not  to  dare  to  take  them  away  from  the 
courtyard. ' ' 

*  *  Hum ! ' '  said  Kohlhaas.    ' '  What  did  you  say  to  that  1 ' ' 
**As  the  steward  said  the  two  guests  were  only  going  to 

spend  the  night  and  continue  on  their  way  the  next  morn- 
ing, I  led  the  two  horses  into  the  pigsty.  But  the  following 
day  passed  and  they  did  not  go,  and  on  the  third  it  was 
said  the  gentlemen  were  going  to  stay  some  weeks  longer 
at  the  castle." 

**  After  all,  it  was  not  so  bad,  Herse,  in  the  pigsty,  as  it 
seemed  to  you  when  you  first  stuck  your  nose  into  it, ' '  said 
Kohlhaas. 

''  That's  true,"  answered  the  groom.  ''After  I  had 
swept  the  place  out  a  little,  it  wasn't  so  bad!  I  gave  a 
groschen  to  the  maid  to  have  her  put  the  pigs  somewhere 
else ;  and  bj^  taking  the  boards  from  the  roof -bars  at  dawn 


320  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

and  laying  them  on  again  at  night,  I  managed  to  arrange 
it  so  that  the  horses  could  stand  upright  in  the  daytime. 
So  there  they  stood  like  geese  in  a  coop,  and  stuck  their 
heads  through  the  roof,  looking  around  for  Kohlhaasen- 
briick  or  some  other  place  where  they  would  be  better  off. ' ' 

* '  Well  then, ' '  said  Kohlhaas, ' '  why  in  the  world  did  they 
drive  you  away?  " 

'*  Sir,  I'll  tell  you,"  answered  the  groom,  "  it  was  because 
they  wanted  to  get  rid  of  me,  since,  as  long  as  I  was  there, 
they  could  not  work  the  horses  to  death.  Everywhere,  in 
the  yard,  in  the  servants'  hall,  they  made  faces  at  me,  and 
because  I  thought  to  myself,  '  You  can  draw  your  jaws 
do^\^l  until  you  dislocate  them,  for  all  I  care,'  they  picked 
a  quarrel  and  threw  me  out  of  the  courtyard." 

''But  what  provoked  them!"  cried  Kohlhaas;  "they 
must  have  had  some  sort  of  provocation !  ' ' 

* '  Oh,  to  be  sure, ' '  answered  Herse ;  ' '  the  best  imagin- 
able !  On  the  evening  of  the  second  day  spent  in  the  pigsty, 
I  took  the  horses,  which  had  become  dirty  in  spite  of  my 
efforts,  and  started  to  ride  them  down  to  the  horse-pond. 
When  I  reached  the  castle-gate  and  was  just  about  to  turn, 
I  heard  the  castellan  and  the  steward,  with  servants,  dogs 
and  cudgels,  rushing  out  of  the  servants'  hall  after  me  and 
calling,  '  Stop  thief !  Stop  gallows-bird !  '  as  if  they  were 
possessed.  The  gate-keeper  stepped  in  front  of  me,  and 
when  I  asked  him  and  the  raving  crowd  that  was  running 
at  me,  '  What  in  the  world  is  the  matter? '  — '  What's  the 
matter !  '  answered  the  castellan,  seizing  my  two  black 
horses  by  the  bridle.  *  Where  are  you  going  with  the 
horses?  '  he  asked,  and  seized  me  by  the  chest.  '  Where  am 
I  going?  '  I  repeated.  '  Thunder  and  lightning!  I  am 
riding  down  to  the  horse-pond.  Do  you  think  that  I — ?  '  — 
*  To  the  horse-pond!  '  cried  the  castellan.  '  I'll  teach  you, 
you  swindler,  to  swim  along  the  highroad  back  to  Kohl- 
haasenbriick!  '  And  with  a  spiteful,  vicious  jerk  he  and 
the  steward,  who  had  caught  me  by  the  leg,  hurled  me  down 
from  the  horse  so  that  I  measured  my  full  length  in  the  mud. 


MICHAEL  KOHLHAAS  321 

'  Murder !  Help !  '  I  cried ;  *  breast  straps  and  blankets  and 
a  bundle  of  linen  belonging  to  me  are  in  the  stable. '  But 
while  the  steward  led  the  horses  away,  the  castellan  and 
servants  fell  upon  me  with  their  feet  and  whips  and  cudgels, 
so  that  I  sank  dowTi  behind  the  castle-gate  half  dead.  And 
when  I  cried,  '  The  thieves !  Where  are  they  taking  my 
horses?  '  and  got  to  my  feet — '  Out  of  the  courtyard  with 
you !  '  screamed  the  castellan,  '  Sick  him,  Caesar !  Sick 
him,  Hunter ! '  and,  '  Sick  him.  Spitz !  '  he  called,  and  a 
pack  of  more  than  twelve  dogs  rushed  at  me.  Then  I  tore 
something  from  the  fence,  possibly  a  picket,  and  stretched 
out  three  dogs  dead  beside  me!  But  when  I  had  to  give 
way  because  I  was  suffering  from  fearful  wounds  and  bites, 
I  heard  a  shrill  whistle;  the  dogs  scurried  into  the  yard, 
the  gates  were  swung  shut  and  the  bolt  shot  into  position, 
and  I  sank  down  on  the  highroad  unconscious. ' ' 

Kohlhaas,  white  in  the  face,  said  with  forced  jocularity, 
'*  Didn't  you  really  want  to  escape,  Herse?  "  And  as  the 
latter,  with  a  deep  blush,  looked  down  at  the  ground  — 
''  Confess  to  me !  "  said  he ;  ''  You  didn't  like  it  in  the  pig- 
sty; you  thought  to  yourself,  you  would  rather  be  in  the 
stable  at  Kohlhaasenbriick,  after  all!  " 

' '  Od  's  thunder !  ' '  cried  Herse ;  ' '  breast  strap  and 
blankets  I  tell  you,  and  a  bundle  of  linen  I  left  behind  in 
the  pigsty.  Wouldn  't  I  have  taken  along  three  gold  gulden 
that  I  had  wrapped  in  a  red  silk  neckcloth  and  hidden  away 
behind  the  manger?  Blazes,  hell,  and  the  devil!  When 
you  talk  like  that,  I'd  like  to  relight  at  once  the  sulphur 
cord  I  threw  away!  " 

''  There,  there!  "  said  the  horse-dealer,  "  I  really  meant 
no  harm.  What  you  have  said  —  see  here,  I  believe  it  word 
for  word,  and  when  the  matter  comes  up,  I  am  ready  to 
take  the  Holy  Communion  myself  as  to  its  truth.  I  am 
sorry  that  you  have  not  fared  better  in  my  service.  Go, 
Herse,  go  back  to  bed.  Have  them  bring  you  a  bottle  of 
wine  and  make  yourself  comfortable ;  you  shall  have  justice 

Vol.  IV  — 21 


322  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

done  you !  ' '  With  that  he  stood  up,  made  out  a  list  of  the 
things  which  the  head  groom  had  left  behind  in  the  pigsty, 
jotted  down  the  value  of  each,  asked  him  how  high  he 
estimated  the  cost  of  his  medical  treatment,  and  sent  him 
from  the  room  after  shaking  hands  with  him  once  more. 

Thereupon  he  recounted  to  Lisbeth,  his  wife,  the  w^hole 
course  of  the  affair,  explained  the  true  relation  of  events, 
and  declared  to  her  that  he  Avas  determined  to  demand  pub- 
lic justice  for  himself.  He  had  the  satisfaction  of  finding 
that  she  heartily  approved  his  purpose,  for,  she  said,  many 
other  travelers,  perhaps  less  patient  than  he,  would  pass 
by  the  castle,  and  it  was  doing  God's  work  to  put  a  stop 
to  disorders  such  as  these  She  added  that  she  would 
manage  to  get  together  the  money  to  pay  the  expenses  of 
the  lawsuit.  Kohlhaas  called  her  his  brave  vdie,  spent 
that  day  and  the  next  very  happily  with  her  and  the  chil- 
dren, and,  as  soon  as  his  business  would  at  all  permit  it, 
set  out  for  Dresden  in  order  to  lay  his  suit  before  the  court. 

Here,  with  the  help  of  a  la\\^'er  whom  he  knew,  he  drew 
up  a  complaint,  in  which,  after  giving  a  detailed  account 
of  the  outrage  which  Squire  Wenzel  Tronka  had  committed 
against  him  and  against  his  groom  Herse,  he  petitioned  for 
the  lawful  punishment  of  the  former,  restoration  of  the 
horses  to  their  original  condition,  and  compensation  for  the 
damages  which  he  and  his  groom  had  sustained.  His  case 
was  indeed  perfectly  clear.  The  fact  that  the  horses  had 
been  detained  contrary  to  law  threw  a  decisive  light  on 
everything  else;  and  even  had  one  been  ^\^lling  to  assume 
that  they  had  sickened  by  sheer  accident,  the  demand  of 
the  horse-dealer  to  have  them  returned  to  him  in  sound  con- 
dition would  still  have  been  just.  While  looking  about  him 
in  the  capital,  Kohlhaas  had  no  lack  of  friends,  either,  who 
promised  to  give  his  case  lively  support.  His  extensive 
trade  in  horses  had  secured  him  the  acquaintance  of  the 
most  important  men  of  the  country,  and  the  honesty 
\vith  which  he  conducted  his  business  had  won  him  their 
good  will. 


MICHAEL  KOHLHAAS  323 

Kohlhaas  dined  cheerfully  several  times  with  his  lawyer, 
who  was  himself  a  man  of  consequence,  left  a  sum  of  money 
with  him  to  defray  the  costs  of  the  lawsuit  and,  fully  reas- 
sured by  the  latter  as  to  the  outcome  of  the  case,  returned, 
after  the  lapse  of  some  weeks,  to  his  wife  Lisbeth  in  Kohl- 
haasenbriick. 

Nevertheless  months  passed,  and  the  year  was  nearing 
its  close  before  he  received  even  a  statement  from  Saxony 
concerning  the  suit  which  he  had  instituted  there,  let  alone 
the  final  decree  itself.  After  he  had  applied  several  times 
more  to  the  court,  he  sent  a  confidential  letter  to  his  lawyer 
asking  what  was  the  cause  of  such  undue  delay.  He  was  told 
in  reply  that  the  suit  had  been  dismissed  in  the  Dresden 
courts  at  the  instance  of  an  influential  person.  To  the  aston- 
ished reply  of  the  horse-dealer  asking  w^hat  was  the  reason 
of  this,  the  lawyer  informed  him  that  Squire  Wenzel  Tronka 
was  related  to  two  young  noblemen,  Hinz  and  Kunz  Tronka, 
one  of  whom  was  Cup-bearer  to  the  person  of  the  sovereign, 
and  the  other  actually  Chamberlain.  He  also  advised  Kohl- 
haas  not  to  make  any  further  appeal  to  the  court  of  law, 
but  to  try  to  regain  possession  of  his  horses  which  were 
still  at  Tronka  Castle,  giving  him  to  understand  that  the 
Squire,  who  was  then  stopping  in  the  capital,  seemed  to 
have  ordered  his  people  to  deliver  them  to  him.  He  closed 
with  a  request  to  excuse  him  from  executing  any  further 
commissions  in  the  matter,  in  case  Kohlhaas  refused  to  be 
content  with  this. 

At  this  time  Kohlhaas  happened  to  be  in  Brandenburg, 
where  the  City  Governor,  Heinrich  von  Geusau,  to  whose 
jurisdiction  Kohlhaasenbriick  belonged,  was  busy  estab- 
lishing several  charitable  institutions  for  the  sick  and  the 
poor  out  of  a  considerable  fund  w^hich  had  fallen  to  the  city. 
He  was  especially  interested  in  fitting  up,  for  the  benefit 
of  invalids,  a  mineral  spring  which  rose  in  one  of  the  vil- 
lages in  the  vicinity,  and  which  was  thought  to  have  greater 
powers  than  it  subsequently  proved  to  possess.  As  Kohl- 
haas had  had  numerous  dealings  with  him  at  the  time  of 


324  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

his  sojourn  at  Court  and  was  therefore  kno^vn  to  him,  he 
allowed  Herse,  the  head  groom,  who,  ever  since  that  un- 
lucky day  in  Tronka  Castle,  had  suffered  pains  in  the  chest 
when  he  breathed,  to  try  the  effect  of  the  little  healing 
spring,  which  had  been  inclosed  and  roofed  over. 

It  so  happened  that  the  City  Governor  was  just  giving 
some  directions,  as  he  stood  beside  the  depression  in  which 
Kohlhaas  had  placed  Herse,  when  a  messenger,  whom  the 
horse-dealer's  wife  had  sent  on  after  him,  put  in  his  hands 
the  disheartening  letter  from  his  la^vJ^er  in  Dresden.  The 
City  Governor,  who,  while  speaking  with  the  doctor,  noticed 
that  Kohlhaas  let  a  tear  fall  on  the  letter  he  had  just  read, 
approached  him  and,  in  a  friendly,  cordial  way,  asked 
him  what  misfortune  had  befallen  him.  The  horse-dealer 
handed  him  the  letter  without  answering.  The  worthy 
Governor,  knowing  the  abominable  injustice  done  him  at 
Tronka  Castle  as  a  result  of  which  Herse  was  lying  there 
before  him  sick,  perhaps  never  to  recover,  clapped  Kohl- 
haas on  the  shoulder  and  told  him  not  to  lose  courage,  for 
he  would  help  him  secure  justice.  In  the  evening,  when 
the  horse-dealer,  acting  upon  his  orders,  came  to  the  palace 
to  see  him,  Kohlhaas  was  told  that  what  he  should  do  was 
to  draw  up  a  petition  to  the  Elector  of  Brandenburg,  Avith 
a  short  account  of  the  incident,  to  inclose  the  lawyer's  let- 
ter, and,  on  account  of  the  violence  which  had  been  com- 
mitted against  him  on  Saxon  territory,  solicit  the  protec- 
tion of  the  sovereign.  He  promised  him  to  see  that  the 
petition  would  be  delivered  into  the  hands  of  the  Elector 
together  with  another  packet  that  was  all  ready  to  be  dis- 
patched ;  if  circumstances  permitted,  the  latter  would,  with- 
out fail,  approach  the  Elector  of  Saxony  on  his  behalf. 
Such  a  step  would  be  quite  sufficient  to  secure  Kohlhaas 
justice  at  the  hand  of  the  tribunal  at  Dresden,  in  spite  of 
the  arts  of  the  Squire  and  his  partisans.  Kohlhaas,  much 
delighted,  thanked  the  Governor  very  heartily  for  this  new 
proof  of  his  good  will,  and  said  he  was  only  sorry  that  he 
had  not  instituted  proceedings  at  once  in  Berlin  ^^thout 


MICHAEL  KOHLHAAS  325 

taking  any  steps  in  the  matter  at  Dresden.  After  he  had 
made  out  the  complaint  in  due  form  at  the  office  of  the 
municipal  court  and  delivered  it  to  the  Governor,  he  re- 
turned to  Kohlhaasenbriick,  more  encouraged  than  ever 
about  the  outcome  of  his  affair. 

After  only  a  few  weeks,  however,  he  was  grieved  to  learn 
from  a  magistrate  who  had  gone  to  Potsdam  on  business 
for  the  City  Governor,  that  the  Elector  had  handed  the 
petition  over  to  his  Chancellor,  Count  Kallheim,  and  that 
the  latter,  instead  of  taking  the  course  most  likely  to  pro- 
duce results  and  petitioning  the  Court  at  Dresden  directly 
for  investigation  and  punishment  of  the  outrage,  had,  as 
a  preliminary,  applied  to  the  Squire  Tronka  for  further 
information. 

The  magistrate,  who  had  stopped  in  his  carriage  outside 
of  Kohlhaas'  house  and  seemetl  to  have  been  instructed  to 
deliver  this  message  to  the  horse-dealer,  could  give  the  lat- 
ter no  satisfactory  answer  to  his  perplexed  question  as  to 
w^hy  this  step  had  been  taken.  He  was  apparently  in  a 
hurry  to  continue  his  journey,  and  merely  added  that  the 
Governor  sent  Kohlhaas  word  to  be  patient.  Not  until  the 
very  end  of  the  short  interview  did  the  horse-dealer  divine 
from  some  casual  words  he  let  fall,  that  Count  Kallheim 
was  related  by  marriage  to  the  house  of  Tronka. 

Kohlhaas,  who  no  longer  took  any  pleasure  either  in  his 
horse-breeding,  or  his  house  or  Ms  farm,  scarcely  even  in 
his  wife  and  children,  waited  all  the  next  month,  full  of 
gloomy  forebodings  as  to  the  future.  And,  just  as  he  had 
expected  at  the  expiration  of  this  time,  Herse,  somewhat 
benefited  by  the  baths,  came  back  from  Brandenburg  bring- 
ing a  rather  lengthy  decree  and  a  letter  from  the  City  Goyr_ 
ernofr-  The  latter  ran  as  follows :  He  was  sorry  that  he 
could  do  nothing  in  Kohlhaas'  behalf;  he  was  sending  him 
a  decision  from  the  Chancery  of  State  and  he  advised  him 
to  fetch  away  the  horses  that  he  had  left  behind  at  the 
Tronka  Castle,  and  then  to  let  the  matter  drop. 

The  decree  read  as  follows:     "According  to  the  report 


326  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

of  the  tribunal  at  Dresden,  he  was  a  good-for-nothing,  quar- 
relsome person;  the  Squire  with  whom  he  had  left  the 
horses  was  not  keeping  them  from  him  in  any  way;  let  him 
send  to  the  castle  and  take  them  away,  or  at  least  inform 
the  Squire  where  to  send  them  to  him ;  in  any  case  he  should 
not  trouble  the  Chancery  of  the  State  with  such  petty  quar- 
rels and  mischief -making. " 

Kohlhaas,  who  was  not  concerned  about  the  horses  them- 
selves —  he  would  have  felt  just  as  much  pain  if  it  had  been 
a  question  of  a  couple  of  dogs  —  Kohlhaas  foamed  with 
rage  when  he  received  this  letter.  As  often  as  he  heard 
a  noise  in  the  courtyard  he  looked  toward  the  gateway  with 
the  most  revolting  feelings  of  anticipation  that  had  ever 
agitated  his  breast,  to  see  whether  the  servants  of  the 
Squire  had  come  to  restore  to  him,  perhaps  even  ^vith  an 
apologj^  the  starved  and  worn-out  horses.  This  was  the 
only  situation  Avhich  he  felt  that  his  soul,  well  disciplined 
though  it  had  been  by  the  world,  was  not  prepared  to  meet. 

A  short  time  after,  however,  he  heard  from  an  acquaint- 
ance who  had  traveled  that  road,  that  at  Tronka  Castle 
his  horses  were  still  being  used  for  work  in  the  fields  exactly 
like  the  Squire's  other  horses.  Through  the  midst  of  the 
pain  caused  by  beholding  the  world  in  a  state  of  such 
monstrous  disorder,  shot  the  inward  satisfaction  of  know- 
ing that  from  henceforth  he  would  be  at  peace  with  himself. 

He  invited  a  bailiff,  who  was  his  neighbor,  to  come  to  see 
him.  The  latter  had  long  cherished  the  idea  of  enlarging 
his  estate  by  purchasing  the  property  which  adjoined  it. 
When  he  had  seated  himself  Kohlhaas  asked  him  how  much 
he  would  give  for  his  possessions  on  Brandenburg  and 
Saxon  territory,  for  house  and  farm,  in  a  lump,  immovable 
or  not. 

Lisbeth,  his  wife,  grew  pale  when  she  heard  his  words. 
She  turned  around  and  picked  up  her  youngest  child  who 
was  plajdng  on  the  floor  behind  her.  While  the  child  pulled 
at  her  kerchief,  she  darted  glances  of  mortal  terror  past 
the  little  one's  red  cheeks,  at  the  horse-dealer,  and  at  a 
paper  which  he  held  in  his  hand. 


MICHAEL  KOHLHAAS  327 

The  bailiff  stared  at  his  neighbor  in  astonishment  and 
asked  him  what  had  suddenly  given  him  such  strange  ideas ; 
to  which  the  horse-dealer,  with  as  much  gaiety  as  he  could 
muster,  replied  that  the  idea  of  selling  his  farm  on  the 
banks  of  the  Havel  was  not  an  entirely  new  one,  but  that 
they  had  often  before  discussed  the  subject  together.  As 
for  his  house  in  the  outskirts  of  Dresden  —  in  comparison 
with  the  farm  it  was  only  a  tag  end  and  need  not  be  taken 
into  consideration.  In  short,  if  the  bailiff  would  do  as  he 
wished  and  take  over  both  pieces  of  property,  he  was  ready 
to  close  the  contract  with  him.  He  added  with  rather 
forced  pleasantry  that  Kohlhaasenbriick  was  not  the  world ; 
that  there  might  be  objects  in  life  compared  with  which  that 
of  taking  care  of  his  home  and  family  as  a  father  is  sup- 
posed to  would  be  a  secondary  and  unworthy  one.  In  a 
word,  he  must  tell  him  that  his  soul  was  intent  upon  accom- 
plishing great  things,  of  which,  perhaps,  he  would  hear 
shortly.  The  bailiff,  reassured  by  these  words,  said  jok- 
ingly to  Kohlhaas'  wife,  Avho  was  kissing  her  child  repeat- 
edly, "  Surely  he  will  not  insist  upon  being  paid  imme- 
diately! "  Then  he  laid  his  hat  and  cane,  which  he  had 
been  holding  between  his  knees,  on  the  table,  and  taking  the 
paper,  which  the  horse-dealer  was  holding  in  his  hand, 
began  to  read.  Kohlhaas,  moving  closer  to  him,  explained 
that  it  was  a  contingent  contract  to  purchase,  drawn  up  by 
himself,  his  right  to  cancel  the  contract  expiring  in  four 
weeks.  He  showed  the  bailiff  that  nothing  was  wanting  but 
the  signatures,  the  insertion  of  the  purchase-price  itself,  and 
the  amount  of  the  forfeit  that  he,  Kohlhaas,  would  agree  to 
pay  in  case  he  should  withdraw  from  the  contract  within  the 
four  weeks '  time.  Again  Kohlhaas  gaily  urged  his  friend 
to  make  an  offer,  assuring  him  that  he  would  be  reasonable 
and  would  make  the  conditions  easy  for  him.  His  wife  was 
walking  up  and  do'vvn  the  room ;  she  breathed  so  hard  that 
the  kerchief,  at  which  the  boy  had  been  pulling,  threatened 
to  fall  clear  off  her  shoulder.  The  bailiff  said  that  he  really 
had  no  way  of  judging  the  value  of  the  property  in  Dres- 


328  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

den ;  whereupon  Kolilhaas,  shoving  toward  him  some  letters 
which  had  been  exchanged  at  the  time  of  its  purchase, 
answered  that  he  estimated  it  at  one  hundred  gold  gulden, 
although  the  letters  would  show  that  it  had  cost  him  almost 
half  as  much  again.  The  bailiff  who,  on  reading  the  deed 
of  sale,  found  that,  strangely  enough,  he  too  was  guaranteed 
the  privilege  of  withdra^\^ng  from  the  bargain,  had  already 
half  made  up  his  mind ;  but  he  said  that,  of  course,  he  could 
make  no  use  of  the  stud-horses  which  were  in  the  stables. 
When  Kolilhaas  replied  that  he  wasn't  at  all  inclined  to 
part  with  the  horses  either,  and  that  he  also  desired  to  keep 
for  himself  some  weapons  which  were  hanging  in  the 
armory,  the  bailiff  still  continued  to  hesitate  for  some  time 
At  last  he  repeated  an  offer  that,  once  before,  when  they 
were  out  walking  together,  he  had  made  him,  half  in  jest 
and  half  in  earnest  —  a  trifling  offer  indeed,  in  comparison 
with  the  value  of  the  property.  Kolilhaas  pushed  the  pen 
and  ink  over  for  him  to  sign,  and  wdieii  the  bailiff,  who  could 
not  believe  his  senses,  again  inquired  if  he  were  really  in 
earnest,  and  the  horse-dealer  asked,  a  little  sensitively, 
whether  he  thought  that  he  was  only  jesting  with  him,  then 
took  up  the  pen,  tliough  with  a  very  serious  face,  and  wrote. 
However,  he  crossed  out  the  clause  concerning  the  sum  to 
be  forfeited  in  case  the  seller  should  repent  of  the  trans- 
action, bound  himself  to  a  loan  of  one  hundred  gold  gulden 
on  a  mortgage  on  the  Dresden  property,  which  he  abso- 
lutely refused  to  buy  outright,  and  allowed  Kohlhaas  full 
liberty  to  withdraw  from  the  transaction  at  any  time  within 
two  months. 

The  horse-dealer,  touched  by  this  conduct,  shook  his  hand 
with  great  cordiality,  and  after  they  had  furthermore 
agreed  on  the  principal  conditions,  to  the  effect  that  a 
fourth  part  of  the  purchase-price  should  without  fail  be 
paid  immediately  in  cash,  and  the  balance  paid  into  the 
Hamburg  bank  in  three  months'  time,  Kohlhaas  called  for 
wine  in  order  to  celebrate  such  a  happy  conclusion  of  the 
bargain.     He  told  the  maid-servant  who  entered  wdth  the 


MICHAEL  KOHLHAAS  329 

bottles,  to  order  Sternbald,  the  groom,  to  saddle  the  chest- 
nut horse  for  him,  as  he  had  to  ride  to  the  capital,  where 
he  had  some  business  to  attend  to.  He  gave  them  to  under- 
stand that,  in  a  short  time,  when  he  returned,  he  would  talk 
more  frankly  concerning  what  he  must  for  the  present  con- 
tinue to  keep  to  himself.  As  he  poured  out  the  wine  into 
the  glasses,  he  asked  about  the  Poles  and  the  Turks  who 
were  just  then  at  war,  and  involved  the  bailiff  in  many- 
political  conjectures  on  the  subject;  then,  after  finally 
drinking  once  more  to  the  success  of  their  business,  he 
allowed  the  latter  to  depart. 

When  the  bailiff  had  left  the  room,  Lisbeth  fell  down  on 
her  knees  before  her  husband.  "  If  you  have  any  affection 
for  me,"  she  cried,  ''  and  for  the  children  whom  I  have 
borne  you ;  if  you  have  not  already,  for  what  reason  I  know 
not,  cast  us  out  from  your  heart,  then  tell  me  what  these 
horrible  preparations  mean!  " 

Kohlhaas  answered,  "  Dearest  wife,  they  mean  nothing 
which  need  cause  you  any  alarm,  as  matters  stand  at  pres- 
ent. I  have  received  a  decree  in  which  I  am  told  that  my 
complaint  against  the  Squire  Wenzel  Tronka  is  a  piece  of 
impertinent  mischief-making.  As  there  must  exist  some 
misunderstanding  in  this  matter,  I  have  made  up  my  mind 
to  present  my  complaint  once  more,  this  time  in  person,  to 
the  sovereign  himself." 

*'  But  why  mil  you  sell  your  house?  "  she  cried,  rising 
with  a  look  of  despair. 

The  horse-dealer,  clasping  her  tenderly  to  his  breast, 
answered,  ' '  Because,  dear  Lisbeth,  I  do  not  care  to  remain 
in  a  country  where  they  will  not  protect  me  in  my  rights. 
If  I  am  to  be  kicked  I  would  rather  be  a  dog  than  a  man ! 
I  am  sure  that  my  wife  thinks  about  this  just  as  I  do." 

"  How  do  you  know,"  she  asked  wildly,  "  that  they  will 
not  protect  you  in  your  rights?  If,  as  is  becoming,  you 
approach  the  Elector  humbly  with  your  petition,  how  do 
you  know  that  it  will  be  thro^vn  aside  or  answered  by  a 
refusal  to  listen  to  you?  " 


330  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

' '  Very  well !  ' '  answered  Kohlhaas ;  "  if  my  fears  on  the 
subject  are  unfounded,  my  house  isn't  sold  yet,  either.  The 
Elector  himself  is  just,  I  know,  and  if  I  can  only  succeed 
in  getting  past  those  who  surround  him  and  in  reaching  his 
person,  I  do  not  doubt  that  I  shall  secure  justice,  and  that, 
before  the  week  is  out,  I  shall  return  joyfully  home  again 
to  you  and  my  old  trade.  In  that  case  I  would  gladly  stay 
with  you,''  he  added,  kissing  her,  "  until  the  end  of  my  life ! 
But  it  is  advisable, ' '  he  continued,  * '  to  be  prepared  for  any 
emergency,  and  for  that  reason  I  should  like  you,  if  it  is 
possible,  to  go  away  for  a  while  with  the  children  to  your 
aunt  in  Schwerin,  whom,  moreover,  you  have,  for  some 
time,  been  intending  to  visit!  " 

'  *  What !  ' '  cried  the  housewife ; ' '  I  am  to  go  to  Schwerin  — 
to  go  across  the  frontier  with  the  children  to  my  aunt  in 
Schwerin?  "     Terror  choked  her  words. 

''  Certainly,"  answered  Kohlhaas,  "  and,  if  possible, 
right  away,  so  that  I  may  not  be  hindered  by  any  family 
considerations  in  the  steps  I  intend  to  take  in  my  suit." 

*  *  Oh,  I  understand  you !  ' '  she  cried.  ' '  You  now  need 
nothing  but  weapons  and  horses;  whoever  will  may  take 
everything  else!  "  With  this  she  turned  away  and,  in  tears, 
flung  herself  down  on  a  chair. 

Kohlhaas  exclaimed  in  alarm,  '*  Dearest  Lisbeth,  what 
are  you  doing?  God  has  blessed  me  with  wife  and  children 
and  worldly  goods;  am  I  today  for  the  first  time  to  wish 
that  it  were  otherwise?  "  He  sat  down  gently  beside  his 
wife,  who  at  these  words  had  flushed  up  and  fallen  on  his 
neck.  **  Tell  me !  "  said  he,  smoothing  the  curls  away  from 
her  forehead.  ' '  What  shall  I  do  ?  Shall  I  give  up  my 
case?  Do  you  wish  me  to  go  to  Tronka  Castle,  beg  the 
knight  to  restore  the  horses  to  me,  mount  and  ride  them 
back  home  ?  ' ' 

Lisbeth  did  not  dare  to  cry  out,  *'  Yes,  yes,  yes!  "  She 
shook  her  head,  weeping,  and,  clasping  him  close,  kissed 
him  passionately. 

"  Well,  then,"  cried  Kohlhaas,  "  if  you  feel  that,  in  case 


MICHAEL  KOHLHAAS  331 

I  am  to  continue  my  trade,  justice  must  be  done  me,  do  not 
deny  me  the  liberty  which  I  must  have  in  order  to  pro- 
cure it !  " 

With  that  he  stood  up  and  said  to  the  groom  who  had 
come  to  tell  him  that  the  chestnut  horse  was  saddled,  * '  To- 
morrow the  bay  horses  must  be  harnessed  up  to  take  my 
wife  to  Schwerin. "  Lisbeth  said  that  she  had  an  idea! 
She  rose,  wiped  the  tears  from  her  eyes,  and,  going  over 
to  the  desk  where  he  had  seated  himself,  asked  him  if  he 
would  give  her  the  petition  and  let  her  go  to  Berlin  in  his 
stead  and  hand  it  to  the  Elector.  For  more  reasons  than 
one  Kohlhaas  was  deeply  moved  by  this  change  of  attitude. 
He  drew  her  down  on  his  lap,  and  said, ' '  Dearest  wife,  that 
is  hardly  practicable.  The  sovereign  is  surrounded  by  a 
great  many  people;  whoever  wishes  to  approach  him  is 
exposed  to  many  annoyances." 

Lisbeth  rejoined  that,  in  a  thousand  cases,  it  was  easier 
for  a  woman  to  approach  him  than  it  was  for  a  man. 
''  Give  me  the  petition,"  she  repeated,  ''  and  if  all  that  you 
wish  is  the  assurance  that  it  shall  reach  his  hands,  T  vouch 
for  it;  he  shall  receive  it!  " 

Kohlhaas,  who  had  had  many  proofs  of  her  courage  as 
well  as  of  her  wisdom,  asked  her  how  she  intended  to  go 
about  it.  To  this  she  answered,  looking  shamefacedly  at 
the  ground,  that  the  castellan  of  the  Elector's  palace  had 
paid  court  to  her  in  former  days,  when  he  had  been  in 
service  in  Schwerin;  that,  to  be  sure,  he  was  married  now 
and  had  several  children,  but  that  she  was  not  yet  entirely 
forgotten,  and,  in  short,  her  husband  should  leave  it  to 
her  to  take  advantage  of  this  circumstance  as  well  as  of 
many  others  which  it  would  require  too  much  time  to 
enumerate.  Kohlhaas  kissed  her  joyfully,  said  that  he 
accepted  her  proposal,  and  informed  her  that  for  her  to 
lodge  with  the  wife  of  the  castellan  would  be  all  that  was 
necessary  to  enable  her  to  approach  the  sovereign  inside 
the  palace  itself.  Then  he  gave  her  the  petition,  had  the 
bay  horses  harnessed,  and  sent  her  off,  well  bundled  up, 
accompanied  by  Sternbald,  his  faithful  groom. 


332  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

Of  all  the  unsuccessful  steps,  however,  which  he  had 
taken  in  regard  to  his  suit,  this  journey  was  the  most  unfor- 
tunate. For  only  a  few  days  later  Sternbald  entered  the 
courtyard  again,  leading  the  horses  at  a  walk  before  the 
wagon,  in  which  lay  his  wife,  stretched  out,  with  a  danger- 
ous contusion  of  the  chest.  Kohlhaas,  who  approached  the 
wagon  with  a  white  face,  could  learn  nothing  coherent  con- 
cerning the  cause  of  the  accident.  The  castellan,  the  groom 
said,  had  not  been  at  home ;  they  had  therefore  been  obliged 
to  put  up  at  an  inn  that  stood  near  the  palace.  Lisbeth 
had  left  this  inn  on  the  following  morning,  ordering  the 
servant  to  stay  behind  with  the  horses;  not  until  evening 
had  she  returned,  and  then  only  in  this  condition.  It  seemed 
she  had  pressed  forward  too  boldly  toward  the  person  of 
the  sovereign,  and  without  any  fault  of  his,  but  merelj^ 
through  the  rough  zeal  of  a  body-giiard  which  surrounded 
him,  she  had  received  a  blow  on  the  chest  with  the  shaft  of 
a  lance.  At  least  this  was  what  the  people  said  who,  toward 
evening,  had  brought  her  back  unconscious  to  the  inn ;  for 
she  herself  could  talk  but  little  for  the  blood  which  flowed 
from  her  mouth.  The  petition  had  been  taken  from  her 
afterward  by  a  knight.  Sternbald  said  that  it  had  been 
his  wish  to  jump  on  a  horse  at  once  and  bring  the  news  of 
the  unfortunate  accident  to  his  master,  but,  in  spite  of  the 
remonstrances  of  the  surgeon  who  had  been  called  in,  she 
had  insisted  on  being  taken  back  to  her  husband  at  Kohl- 
haasenbriick  without  previously  sending  him  word.  She 
was  completely  exhausted  by  the  journey  and  Kohlhaas  put 
her  to  bed,  where  she  lived  a  few  days  longer,  struggling 
painfully  to  draw  breath. 

They  tried  in  vain  to  restore  her  to  consciousness  in  order 
to  learn  the  particulars  of  what  had  occurred ;  she  lay  with 
fixed,  already  glassy  eyes,  and  gave  no  answer. 

Once  only,  shortly  before  her  death,  did  she  recover  con- 
sciousness. A  minister  of  the  Lutheran  church  (which 
religion,  then  in  its  infancy,  she  had  embraced,  follomng 
the  example  of  her  husband)  was  standing  beside  her  bed, 


MICHAEL  KOHLHAAS  333 

reading  in  a  loud  solemn  voice,  full  of  emotion,  a  chapter 
of  the  Bible,  when  she  suddenly  looked  up  at  him  with  a 
stern  expression,  and,  taking  the  Bible  out  of  his  hand,  as 
though  there  were  no  need  to  read  to  her  from  it,  turned 
over  the  leaves  for  some  time  and  seemed  to  be  searching 
for  some  special  passage.  At  last,  with  her  fore-finger  she 
pointed  out  to  Kohlhaas,  who  was  sitting  beside  her  bed, 
the  verse:  '*  Forgive  your  enemies;  do  good  to  them  that 
hate  you. ' '  As  she  did  so  she  pressed  his  hand  with  a  look 
full  of  deep  and  tender  feeling,  and  passed  away. 

Kohlhaas  thought,  * '  May  God  never  forgive  me  the  way 
I  forgive  the  Squire !  ' '  Then  he  kissed  her  amid  freely 
flowing  tears,  closed  her  eyes,  and  left  the  chamber. 

He  took  the  hundred  gold  gulden  which  the  bailiff  had 
already  sent  him  for  the  stables  in  Dresden,  and  ordered 
a  funeral  ceremony  that  seemed  more  suitable  for  a  princess 
than  for  her  —  an  oaken  coffin  heavily  trimmed  with  metal, 
cushions  of  silk  with  gold  and  silver  tassels,  and  a  grave 
eight  yards  deep  lined  with  stones  and  mortar.  He  himself 
stood  beside  the  vault  with  his  youngest  child  in  his  arms 
and  watched  the  work.  On  the  day  of  the  funeral  the 
corpse,  white  as  snow,  was  placed  in  a  room  which  he  had 
had  draped  with  black  cloth. 

The  minister  had  just  completed  a  touching  address  by 
the  side  of  the  bier  when  the  sovereign's  answer  to  the 
petition  which  the  dead  woman  had  presented  was  delivered 
to  Kohlhaas.  By  this  decree  he  was  ordered  to  fetch  the 
horses  from  Tronka  Castle  and,  under  pain  of  imprison- 
ment, not  to  bring  any  further  action  in  the  matter.  Kohl- 
haas put  the  letter  in  his  pocket  and  had  the  coffin  carried 
out  to  the  hearse. 

As  soon  as  the  mound  had  been  raised,  the  cross  planted 
on  it,  and  the  guests  who  had  been  present  at  the  interment 
had  taken  their  departure,  Kohlhaas  flung  himself  down 
once  more  before  his  wife 's  empty  bed,  and  then  set  about 
the  business  of  revenge. 

He  sat  down  and  made  out  a  decree  in  which,  by  virtue  of 


334  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

his  own  innate  authority,  he  condemned  the  Squire  Wenzel 
Tronka  within  the  space  of  three  days  after  sight  to  lead 
back  to  Kohlhaasenbriick  the  two  black  horses  which  he 
had  taken  from  him  and  over-worked  in  the  fields,  and  with 
his  o^vn  hands  to  feed  the  horses  in  Kohlhaas'  stables  until 
they  were  fat  again.  This  decree  he  sent  off  to  the  Squire 
by  a  mounted  messenger,  and  instructed  the  latter  to  return 
to  Kohlhaasenbriick  as  soon  as  he  had  delivered  the 
document. 

As  the  three  days  went  by  without  the  horses  being 
returned,  Kohlhaas  called  Herse  and  informed  him  of  what 
he  had  ordered  the  Squire  to  do  in  regard  to  fattening  them. 
Then  he  asked  Herse  two  questions :  first,  whether  he  would 
ride  with  him  to  Tronka  Castle  and  fetch  the  Squire ;  and, 
secondly,  whether  Herse  would  be  '\\^lling  to  apply  the 
whip  to  the  young  gentleman  after  he  had  been  brought  to 
the  stables  at  Kohlhaasenbriick,  in  case  he  should  be  remiss 
in  carrying  out  the  conditions  of  the  decree.  As  soon  as 
Herse  understood  what  was  meant  he  shouted  joyfully  — 
'*  Sir,  this  very  day!  "  and,  throwing  his  hat  into  the  air, 
he  cried  that  he  was  going  to  have  a  thong  w^ith  ten  knots 
plaited  in  order  to  teach  the  Squire  how  to  curry-comb. 
After  this  Kohlhaas  sold  the  house,  packed  the  children  into 
a  wagon,  and  sent  them  over  the  border.  When  darkness 
fell  he  called  the  other  servants  together,  seven  in  number, 
and  every  one  of  them  true  as  gold  to  him,  anned  them  and 
provided  them  mth  mounts  and  set  out  for  the  Tronka 
Castle. 

At  night-fall  of  the  third  day,  with  this  little  troop  he 
rode  down  the  toll-gatherer  and  the  gate-keeper  w^ho 
were  standing  in  conversation  in  the  arched  gateway,  and 
attacked  the  castle.  They  set  fire  to  all  the  outbuildings 
in  the  castle  inclosure,  and,  while,  amid  the  outburst  of  the 
flames,  Herse  hurried  up  the  winding  staircase  into  the 
tower  of  the  castellan's  quarters,  and  with  blows  and  stabs 
fell  upon  the  castellan  and  the  steward  who  were  sitting, 
half  dressed,  over  the  cards,  Kohlhaas  at  the  same  time 


MICHAEL  KOHLHAAS  335 

dashed  into  the  castle  in  search  of  the  Squire  Wenzel.  Thus 
it  is  that  the  angel  of  judgment  descends  from  heaven ;  the 
Squire,  who,  to  the  accompaniment  of  immoderate  laughter, 
was  just  reading  aloud  to  a  crowd  of  young  friends  the 
decree  which  the  horse-dealer  had  sent  to  him,  had  no 
sooner  heard  the  sound  of  his  voice  in  the  courtyard  than, 
turning  suddenly  pale  as  death,  he  cried  out  to  the  gentle- 
men—  "Brothers,  save  yourselves!"  and  disappeared. 
As  Kohlhaas  entered  the  room  he  seized  by  the  shoulders 
a  certain  Squire,  Hans  Tronka,  who  came  at  him,  and  flung 
him  into  the  corner  of  the  room  with  such  force  that  his 
brains  spurted  out  over  the  stone  floor.  While  the  other 
knights,  who  had  drawn  their  weapons,  were  being  over- 
powered and  scattered  by  the  grooms,  Kohlhaas  asked  where 
the  Squire  Wenzel  Tronka  was.  Realizing  the  ignorance 
of  the  stunned  men,  he  kicked  open  the  doors  of  two  apart- 
ments leading  into  the  wings  of  the  castle  and,  after  search- 
ing in  every  direction  throughout  the  rambling  building 
and  finding  no  one,  he  went  do^vn,  cursing,  into  the  castle 
yard,  in  order  to  place  guards  at  the  exits. 

In  the  meantime,  from  the  castle  and  the  wings,  which 
had  caught  fire  from  the  out-buildings,  thick  columns  of 
smoke  were  rising  heavenward.  While  Sternbald  and  three 
busy  grooms  were  gathering  together  everj'-thing  in  the 
castle  that  was  not  fastened  securely  and  throwing  it  do^vn 
among  the  horses  as  fair  spoils,  from  the  open  windows  of 
the  castellan's  quarters  the  corpses  of  the  castellan  and  the 
steward,  with  their  wives  and  children,  were  flung  down 
into  the  courtyard  amid  the  joyful  shouts  of  Herse.  As 
Kohlhaas  descended  the  steps  of  the  castle,  the  gouty  old 
housekeeper  who  managed  the  Squire's  establishment  threw 
herself  at  his  feet.  Pausing  on  the  step,  he  asked  her  where 
the  Squire  Wenzel  Tronka  was.  She  answered  in  a  faint 
trembling  voice  that  she  thought  he  had  taken  refuge  in 
the  chapel.  Kohlhaas  then  called  two  men  with  torches, 
and,  since  they  had  no  keys,  he  had  the  door  broken  open 
with  crowbars  and  axes.      He  knocked  over  altars  and 


336  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

pews ;  nevertheless,  to  his  anger  and  grief,  he  did  not  find 
the  Squire. 

It  happened  that,  at  the  moment  when  Kohlhaas  came 
out  of  the  chapel,  a  young  servant,  one  of  the  retainers  of 
the  castle,  came  hurrying  upon  his  way  to  get  the  Squire 's 
chargers  out  of  a  large  stone  stable  w^hich  was  threatened 
by  the  flames.  Kohlhaas,  who  at  that  very  moment  spied 
his  two  blacks  in  a  little  shed  roofed  with  straw,  asked  the 
man  why  he  did  not  rescue  the  two  blacks.  The  latter, 
sticking  the  key  in  the  stable-door,  answered  that  he  surely 
must  see  that  the  shed  was  already  in  flames.  Kohlhaas 
tore  the  key  violently  from  the  stable-door,  threw  it  over 
the  wall,  and,  raining  blows  as  thick  as  hail  on  the  man  with 
the  flat  of  his  sword,  drove  him  into  the  burning  shed  and, 
amid  the  horrible  laughter  of  the  bystanders,  forced  him 
to  rescue  the  black  horses.  Nevertheless,  when  the  man, 
pale  with  fright,  reappeared  with  the  horses,  only  a  few 
moments  before  the  shed  fell  in  behind  him,  he  no  longer 
found  Kohlhaas.  Betaking  himself  to  the  men  gathered  in 
the  castle  inclosure,  he  asked  the  horse-dealer,  who  several 
times  turned  his  back  on  him,  what  he  was  to  do  with  the 
animals  now. 

Kohlhaas  suddenly  raised  his  foot  with  such  terrible 
force  that  the  kick,  had  it  landed,  would  have  meant  death ; 
then,  without  answering,  he  mounted  his  bay  horse,  sta- 
tioned himself  under  the  gateway  of  the  castle,  and,  while 
his  men  continued  their  work  of  destruction,  silently 
awaited  the  break  of  day, 

"When  the  morning  dawned  the  entire  castle  had  burned 
do^vn  and  only  the  walls  remained  standing ;  no  one  was  left 
in  it  but  Kohlhaas  and  his  seven  men.  He  dismounted  from 
his  horse  and,  in  the  bright  sunlight  which  illuminated 
every  crack  and  corner,  once  more  searched  the  inclosure. 
When  he  had  to  admit,  hard  though  it  was  for  him  to  do  so, 
that  the  expedition  against  the  castle  had  failed,  with  a 
heart  full  of  pain  and  grief  he  sent  Herse  and  some  of  the 
other  men  to  gather  news  of  the  direction  in  which  the 


MICHAEL  KOHLHAAS  337 

Squire  had  fled.  He  felt  especially  troubled  about  a  rich 
nunnery  for  ladies  of  rank,  Erlabrunn  by  name,  which  was 
situated  on  the  shores  of  the  Mulde,  and  whose  abbess,  An- 
tonia  Tronka,  was  celebrated  in  the  neighborhood  as  a  pious, 
charitable,  and  saintly  woman.  The  unhappy  Kohlhaas 
thought  it  only  too  probable  that  the  Squire,  stripped  as  he 
was  of  all  necessities,  had  taken  refuge  in  this  nunnery, 
since  the  abbess  was  his  own  aunt  and  had  been  his  govern- 
ess in  his  early  childhood.  After  informing  himself  of  these 
particulars,  Kohlhaas  ascended  the  tower  of  the  castellan's 
quarters  in  the  interior  of  which  there  was  still  a  habitable 
room,  and  there  he  drew  up  a  so-called  "  Kohlhaas  man- 
date ' '  in  which  he  warned  the  country  not  to  offer  assist- 
ance to  Squire  Wenzel  Tronka,  against  whom  he  was  waging 
just  warfare,  and,  furthermore,  commanded  every  inhabit- 
ant, instead,  relatives  and  friends  not  excepted,  to  sur- 
render him  under  penalty  of  death  and  the  inevitable 
burning  doAvn  of  everything  that  might  be  called  property. 

This  declaration  he  scattered  broadcast  in  the  surround- 
ing country  through  travelers  and  strangers ;  he  even  went 
so  far  as  to  give  Waldmann,  his  servant,  a  copy  of  it,  with 
definite  instructions  to  carry  it  to  Erlabrunn  and  place  it 
in  the  hands  of  Lady  Antonia.  Thereupon  he  had  a  talk 
with  some  of  the  servants  of  Tronka  Castle  who  were 
dissatisfied  with  the  Squire  and,  attracted  by  the  pros- 
pect of  plunder,  wished  to  enter  the  horse-dealer's  sei'v- 
ice.  He  armed  them  after  the  manner  of  foot-soldiers, 
with  cross-bows  and  daggers,  taught  them  how  to  mount 
behind  the  men  on  horseback,  and  after  he  had  turned  into 
money  everything  that  the  company  had  collected  and  had 
distributed  it  among  them,  he  spent  some  hours  in  the  gate- 
way of  the  castle,  resting  after  his  sorry  labor. 

Toward  midday  Herse  came  and  confirmed  what  Kohl- 
haas' heart,  which  was  always  filled  with  the  most  gloomy 
forebodings,  had  already  told  him  —  namely,  that  the 
Squire  was  then  in  the  nunnery  of  Erlabrunn  with  the  old 

Vol.  IV  — 22 


338  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

Lady  Antonia  Tronka,  his  aunt.  It  seemed  that,  through 
a  door  in  the  rear  wall  behind  the  castle,  leading  into  the 
open  air,  he  had  escaped  down  a  narrow  stone  stairway 
which,  protected  by  a  little  roof,  ran  down  to  a  few  boats  on 
the  Elbe.  At  least,  Herse  reported  that  at  midnight  the 
Squire  in  a  skiff  without  rudder  or  oars  had  arrived  at  a  vil- 
lage on  the  Elbe,  to  the  great  astonishment  of  the  inhabit- 
ants who  were  assembled  on  account  of  the  fire  at  Tronka 
Castle  and  that  he  had  gone  on  toward  Erlabrunn  in  a 
village  cart. 

Kohlhaas  sighed  deeply  at  this  news;  he  asked  whether 
the  horses  had  been  fed,  and  when  they  answered  ''  Yes," 
he  had  his  men  mount,  and  in  three  hours'  time  he  was 
at  the  gates  of  Erlabrunn.  Amid  the  rumbling  of  a  distant 
storm  on  the  horizon,  he  and  his  troop  entered  the  court- 
yard of  the  convent  with  torches  which  they  had  lighted 
before  reaching  the  spot.  Just  as  Waldmann,  his  servant, 
came  forward  to  announce  that  the  mandate  had  been  duly 
delivered,  Kohlhaas  saw  the  abbess  and  the  chapter-warden 
step  out  under  the  portal  of  the  nunnery,  engaged  in  agi- 
tated conversation.  While  the  chapter-warden,  a  little  old 
man  with  snow-white  hair,  shooting  furious  glances  at 
Kohlhaas,  was  having  his  armor  put  on  and,  in  a  bold  voice, 
called  to  the  men-servants  surrounding  him  to  ring  the 
storm-bell,  the  abbess,  white  as  a  sheet,  and  holding  the 
silver  image  of  the  Crucified  One  in  her  hand,  descended 
the  sloping  driveway  and,  with  all  her  nuns,  flung  herself 
down  before  Kohlhaas'  horse. 

Herse  and  Sternbald  overpowered  the  chapter-warden, 
who  had  no  sword  in  his  hand,  and  led  him  off  as  a  prisoner 
among  the  horses,  while  Kohlhaas  asked  the  abbess  where 
Squire  Wenzel  Tronka  was.  She  unfastened  from  her 
girdle  a  large  ring  of  keys,  and  answered,  ' '  In  Wittenberg, 
Kohlhaas,  worthy  man!" — adding,  in  a  shaking  voice, 
*  *  Fear  God,  and  do  no  wrong !  ' '  Kohlhaas,  plunged  back 
into  the  hell  of  unsatisfied  thirst  for  revenge,  wheeled  his 
horse  and  was  about  to  cry,  "■  Set  fire  to  the  buildings  I  " 


MICHAEL  KOHLHAAS  339 

when  a  terrific  thunder-bolt  struck  close  beside  him.  Turn- 
ing his  horse  around  again  toward  the  abbess  he  asked  her 
whether  she  had  received  his  mandate.  The  lady  answered 
in  a  weak,  scarcely  audible  voice  — ' '  Just  a  few  moments 
ago!"  ''When?"  ''Two  hours  after  the  Squire,  my 
nephew^,  had  taken  his  departure,  as  truly  as  God  is  my 
help ! ' '  When  Waldmann,  the  groom,  to  whom  Kohlhaas 
turned  with  a  lowering  glance,  stammered  out  a  confir- 
mation of  this  fact,  saying  that  the  waters  of  the  Mulde, 
swollen  by  the  rain,  had  prevented  his  arriving  until  a  few 
moments  ago,  Kohlhaas  came  to  his  senses.  A  sudden,  ter- 
rible downpour  of  rain,  sweeping  across  the  pavement  of 
the  courtyard  and  extinguishing  the  torches,  relaxed  the 
tension  of  the  unhappy  man's  grief;  doffing  his  hat  curtly 
to  the  abbess,  he  wheeled  his  horse,  dug  in  his  spurs,  calling 
*  *  Follow  me,  my  brothers ;  the  Squire  is  in  Wittenberg, ' ' 
and  left  the  nunnery. 

The  night  having  set  in,  he  stopped  at  an  inn  on  the  high- 
road, and  had  to  rest  here  for  a  day  because  the  horses 
were  so  exhausted.  As  he  clearly  saw  that  with  a  troop  of 
ten  men  (for  his  company  numbered  that  many  now)  he 
could  not  defy  a  place  like  Wittenberg,  he  drew  up  a  sec- 
ond mandate,  in  which,  after  a  short  account  of  what  had 
happened  to  him  in  the  land,  he  summoned  "  every  good 
Christian,"  as  he  expressed  it,  to  whom  he  "  solemnly 
promised  bounty-money  and  other  perquisites  of  war,  to 
take  up  his  quarrel  against  Squire  Tronka  as  the  common 
enemy  of  all  Christians."  In  another  mandate  which 
appeared  shortly  after  this  he  called  himself  "  a  free 
gentleman  of  the  Empire  and  of  the  World,  subject  only 
to  God  "  —  an  example  of  morbid  and  misplaced  fanati- 
cism which,  nevertheless,  with  the  sound  of  his  money  and 
the  prospect  of  plunder,  procured  him  a  crowd  of  recruits 
from  among  the  rabble,  whom  the  peace  with  Poland  had 
deprived  of  a  livelihood.  In  fact,  he  had  thirty-odd  men 
when  he  crossed  back  to  the  right  side  of  the  Elbe,  bent 
upon  reducing  Wittenberg  to  ashes. 


340  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

He  encamped  with  horses  and  men  in  an  old  tumble-down 
brick-kiln,  in  the  solitude  of  a  dense  forest  which  sur- 
rounded the  towTi  at  that  time.  No  sooner  had  Stembald, 
whom  he  had  sent  in  disguise  into  the  city  with  the  mandate, 
brought  him  word  that  it  was  already  known  there,  than 
he  set  out  with  his  troop  on  the  eve  of  Whitsuntide;  and 
while  the  citizens  lay  sound  asleep,  he  set  the  iown  on  fire 
at  several  points  simultaneously.  At  the  same  time,  while 
his  men  were  plundering  the  suburbs,  he  fastened  a  paper 
to  the  door-post  of  a  church  to  the  effect  that  ' '  he,  Kohl- 
haas,  had  set  the  city  on  fire,  and  if  the  Squire  were  not 
delivered  to  him  he  would  bum  down  the  city  so  completely 
that,"  as  he  expressed  it,  "he  would  not  need  to  look 
behind  any  wall  to  find  him." 

The  terror  of  the  citizens  at  such  an  unheard-of  outrage 
was  indescribable,  though,  as  it  was  fortunately  a  rather 
calm  summer  night,  the  flames  had  not  destroyed  more  than 
nineteen  buildings,  among  which,  however,  was  a  church. 
Toward  daybreak,  as  soon  as  the  fire  had  been  partially 
extinguished,  the  aged  Governor  of  the  province,  Otto  von 
Gorgas,  sent  out  immediately  a  company  of  fifty  men  to 
capture  the  bloodthirsty  madman.  The  captain  in  com- 
mand of  the  company,  Gerstenberg  by  name,  bore  himself 
so  badly,  however,  that  the  whole  expedition,  instead  of  sub- 
duing Kohlhaas,  rather  helped  him  to  a  most  dangerous 
military  reputation.  For  the  captain  separated  his  men 
into  several  divisions,  with  the  intention  of  surrounding 
and  crushing  Kohlhaas;  but  the  latter,  holding  his  troop 
together,  attacked  and  beat  him  at  isolated  points,  so  that 
by  the  evening  of  the  following  day,  not  a  single  man  of 
the  whole  company  in  which  the  hopes  of  the  country  were 
centred,  remained  in  the  field  against  him.  Kohlhaas,  who 
had  lost  some  of  his  men  in  these  fights,  again  set  fire  to 
the  city  on  the  morning  of  the  next  day,  and  his  murderous 
measures  were  so  well  taken  that  once  more  a  number  of 
houses  and  almost  all  the  barns  in  the  suburbs  were  burned 
down.    At  the  same  time  he  again  posted  the  well-known 


MICHAEL  KOHLHAAS  341 

mandate,  this  time,  furthermore,  on  the  corners  of  the  city- 
hall  itself,  and  he  added  a  notice  concerning  the  fate  of 
Captain  von  Gerstenberg  who  had  been  sent  against 
him  by  the  Governor,  and  whom  he  had  overwhelmingly- 
defeated. 

The  Governor  of  the  province,  highly  incensed  at  this 
defiance,  placed  himself  with  several  knights  at  the  head  of 
a  troop  of  one  hundred  and  fifty  men.  At  a  written  request 
he  gave  Squire  Wenzel  Tronka  a  guard  to  protect  him  from 
the  violence  of  the  people,  who  flatly  insisted  that  he  must 
be  removed  from  the  city.  After  the  Governor  had  had 
guards  placed  in  all  the  villages  in  the  vicinity,  and  also 
had  sentinels  stationed  on  the  city  walls  to  prevent  a  sur- 
prise, he  himself  set  out  on  Saint  Gervaise  's  day  to  capture 
the  dragon  who  was  devastating  the  land.  The  horse-dealer 
was  clever  enough  to  keep  out  of  the  way  of  this  troop.  By 
skilfully  executed  marches  he  enticed  the  Governor  five 
leagues  away  from  the  city,  and  by  means  of  various 
manoeuvres  he  gave  the  other  the  mistaken  notion  that,  hard 
pressed  by  superior  numbers,  he  was  going  to  throw  him- 
self into  Brandenburg.  Then,  when  the  third  night  closed 
in,  he  made  a  forced  ride  back  to  Wittenberg,  and  for  the 
third  time  set  fire  to  the  city.  Herse,  who  crept  into  the 
town  in  disguise,  carried  out  this  horrible  feat  of  daring, 
and  because  of  a  sharp  north  wind  that  was  blowdng,  the 
fire  proved  so  destructive  and  spread  so  rapidly  that  in  less 
than  three  hours  forty-two  houses,  two  churches,  several 
convents  and  schools,  and  the  very  residence  of  the  electoral 
governor  of  the  province  were  reduced  to  ruins  and  ashes. 

The  Governor  who,  when  the  day  broke,  believed  his  ad- 
versary to  be  in  Brandenburg,  returned  by  forced  marches 
when  informed  of  what  had  happened,  and  found  the  city  in 
a  general  uproar.  The  people  were  massed  by  thousands 
around  the  Squire's  house,  which  was  barricaded  with 
heavy  timbers  and  posts,  and  with  wild  cries  they  demanded 
his  expulsion  from  the  city.  Two  burgomasters,  Jenkens 
and  Otto  by  name,  who  were  present  in  their  official  dress 


342  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

at  the  head  of  the  entire  city  council,  tried  in  vain  to  explain 
that  they  absolutely  must  await  the  return  of  a  courier  who 
had  been  dispatched  to  the  President  of  the  Chancery  of 
State  for  permission  to  send  the  Squire  to  Dresden,  whither 
he  himself,  for  many  reasons,  wished  to  go.  The  unreason- 
ing crowd,  armed  with  pikes  and  staves,  cared  nothing  for 
these  words.  After  handling  rather  roughly  some  coun- 
cilors who  were  insisting  upon  the  adoption  of  vigorous 
measures,  the  mob  was  about  to  storm  the  house  where  the 
Squire  was  and  level  it  to  the  ground,  when  the  Governor, 
Otto  von  Gorgas,  appeared  in  the  city  at  the  head  of  his 
troopers.  This  worthy  gentleman,  who  was  wont  by  his 
mere  presence  to  inspire  people  to  respectful  obedience, 
had,  as  though  in  compensation  for  the  failure  of  the  expe- 
dition from  which  he  was  returning,  succeeded  in  taking 
prisoner  three  stray  members  of  the  incendiary's  band, 
right  in  front  of  the  gates  of  the  city.  While  the  prisoners 
were  being  loaded  with  chains  before  the  eyes  of  the  people, 
he  made  a  clever  speech  to  the  city  councilors,  assuring 
them  that  he  was  on  Kohlhaas'  track  and  thought  that  he 
would  soon  be  able  to  bring  the  incendiary  himself  in  chains. 
By  force  of  all  these  reassuring  circumstances  he  succeeded 
in  allaying  the  fears  of  the  assembled  crowd  and  in  partially 
reconciling  them  to  the  presence  of  the  Squire  until  the 
return  of  the  courier  from  Dresden.  He  dismounted  from 
his  horse  and,  accompanied  by  some  knights,  entered  the 
house  after  the  posts  and  stockades  had  been  cleared  away. 
He  found  the  Squire,  who  was  falling  from  one  faint  into 
another,  in  the  hands  of  two  doctors,  who  with  essences  and 
stimulants  were  trying  to  restore  him  to  consciousness.  As 
Sir  Otto  von  Gorgas  realized  that  this  was  not  the  moment 
to  exchange  any  words  with  him  on  the  subject  of  the 
behavior  of  which  he  had  been  guilty,  he  merely  told  him, 
with  a  look  of  quiet  contempt,  to  dress  himself,  and,  for  his 
own  safety,  to  follow  him  to  the  apartments  of  the  knight 's 
prison.  They  put  a  doublet  and  a  helmet  on  the  Squire 
and  when,  with  chest  half  bare  on  account  of  the  difficulty 


MICHAEL  KOHLHAAS  343 

he  had  in  breathing,  he  appeared  in  the  street  on  the  arm 
of  the  Governor  and  his  brother-in-law,  the  Count  of 
Gerschau,  blasphemous  and  horrible  curses  against  him 
rose  to  heaven.  The  mob,  whom  the  lansquenets  found  it 
very  difficult  to  restrain,  called  him  a  bloodsucker,  a  miser- 
able public  pest  and  a  tormentor  of  men,  the  curse  of  the 
city  of  Wittenberg,  and  the  ruin  of  Saxony.  After  a 
wretched  march  through  the  devastated  city,  in  the  course 
of  which  the  Squire's  helmet  fell  off  several  times  without 
his  missing  it  and  had  to  be  replaced  on  his  head  by  the 
knight  who  was  behind  him,  they  reached  the  prison  at 
last,  where  he  disappeared  into  a  tower  under  the  protec- 
tion of  a  strong  gpaard.  Meanwhile  the  return  of  the 
courier  with  the  decree  of  the  Elector  had  aroused  fresh 
alarm  in  the  city.  For  the  Saxon  government,  to  which 
the  citizens  of  Dresden  had  made  direct  application  in  an 
urgent  petition,  refused  to  permit  the  Squire  to  sojourn  in 
the  electoral  capital  before  the  incendiary  had  been  cap- 
tured. The  Governor  was  instructed  rather  to  use  all  the 
power  at  his  command  to  protect  the  Squire  just  where  he 
was,  since  he  had  to  stay  somewhere,  but  in  order  to  pacify 
the  good  city  of  Wittenberg,  the  inhabitants  were  informed 
that  a  force  of  five  hundred  men  under  the  command  of 
Prince  Friedrich  of  Meissen  was  already  on  the  way  to 
protect  them  from  further  molestation  on  the  part  of 
Kohlhaas. 

The  Governor  saw  clearly  that  a  decree  of  this  kind  was 
wholly  inadequate  to  pacify  the  people.  For  not  only  had 
several  small  advantages  gained  by  the  horse-dealer  in 
skirmishes  outside  the  city  sufficed  to  spread  extremely 
disquieting  rumors  as  to  the  size  to  which  his  band  had 
grown ;  his  way  of  waging  warfare  with  ruffians  in  disguise 
who  slunk  about  under  cover  of  darkness  with  pitch,  straw, 
and  sulphur,  unheard  of  and  quite  without  precedent  as  it 
was,  would  have  rendered  ineffectual  an  even  larger  pro- 
tecting force  than  the  one  which  was  advancing  under  the 
Prince  of  Meissen.    After  reflecting  a  short  time,  the  Gov- 


344  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

ernor  determined  therefore  to  suppress  altogether  the 
decree  he  had  received;  he  merely  posted  at  all  the  street 
corners  a  letter  from  the  Prince  of  Meissen,  announcing  his 
arrival.  At  daybreak  a  covered  wagon  left  the  courtyard 
of  the  knight's  prison  and  took  the  road  to  Leipzig,  accom- 
panied by  four  heavily  armed  troopers  who,  in  an  indefinite 
sort  of  way,  let  it  be  understood  that  they  were  bound  for 
the  Pleissenburg.  The  people  having  thus  been  satisfied  on 
the  subject  of  the  ill-starred  Squire,  whose  existence  seemed 
identified  with  fire  and  sword,  the  Governor  himself  set 
out  with  a  force  of  three  hundred  men  to  join  Prince 
Friedrich  of  Meissen.  In  the  mean  time  Kohlhaas,  thanks 
to  the  strange  position  which  he  had  assumed  in  the  world, 
had  in  truth  increased  the  numbers  of  his  band  to  one  hun- 
dred and  nine  men,  and  he  had  also  collected  in  Jessen  a 
store  of  weapons  with  which  he  had  fully  armed  them. 
When  informed  of  the  two  tempests  that  were  sweeping 
down  upon  him,  he  decided  to  go  to  meet  them  with  the 
speed  of  the  hurricane  before  they  should  join  to  over- 
whelm him.  In  accordance  with  this  plan  he  attacked  the 
Prince  of  Meissen  the  very  next  night,  surprising  him  near 
Miihlberg.  In  this  fight,  to  be  sure,  he  was  greatly  grieved 
to  lose  Herse,  who  was  struck  down  at  his  side  by  the  first 
shots  but,  embittered  by  this  loss,  in  a  three-hour  battle 
he  so  roughly  handled  the  Prince  of  Meissen,  who  was 
unable  to  collect  his  forces  in  the  town,  that  at  break  of 
day  the  latter  was  obliged  to  take  the  road  back  to  Dresden, 
owing  to  several  severe  wounds  which  he  had  received  and 
the  complete  disorder  into  which  his  troops  had  been 
thrown.  Kohlhaas,  made  foolhardy  by  this  victory,  turned 
back  to  attack  the  Governor  before  the  latter  could  learn 
of  it,  fell  upon  him  at  midday  in  the  open  country  near  the 
village  of  Damerow,  and  fought  him  until  nightfall,  with 
murderous  losses,  to  be  sure,  but  with  corresponding  suc- 
cess. Indeed,  the  next  morning  he  would  certainly  with 
the  remnant  of  his  band  have  renewed  the  attack  on  the 
Governor,  who  had  thrown  himself  into  the  churchyard  at 


MICHAEL  KOHLHAAS  345 

Damerow,  if  the  latter  had  not  received  through  spies  the 
news  of  the  defeat  of  the  Prince  at  Miihlberg  and  therefore 
deemed  it  wiser  to  return  to  Wittenberg  to  await  a  more 
propitious  moment. 

Five  days  after  the  dispersion  of  these  two  bodies  of 
troops,  Kohlhaas  arrived  before  Leipzig  and  set  fire  to  the 
city  on  three  different  sides.  In  the  mandate  which  he 
scattered  broadcast  on  this  occasion  he  called  himself  **  a 
vicegerent  of  the  archangel  Michael  who  had  come  to  visit 
upon  all  who,  in  this  controversy,  should  take  the  part  of 
the  Squire,  punishment  by  fire  and  sword  for  the  villainy 
into  which  the  whole  world  was  plunged."  At  the  same 
time,  having  surprised  the  castle  at  Liitzen  and  fortified 
himself  in  it,  he  summoned  the  people  to  join  him  and  help 
establish  a  better  order  of  things.  With  a  sort  of  insane 
fanaticism  the  mandate  was  signed :  '  *  Done  at  the  seat  of 
our  provisional  world  government,  our  ancient  castle  at 
Liitzen. ' ' 

As  the  good  fortune  of  the  inhabitants  of  Leipzig  would 
have  it,  the  fire,  owing  to  a  steady  rain  which  was  falling, 
did  not  spread,  so  that,  thanks  to  the  rapid  action  of  the 
means  at  hand  for  extinguishing  fires,  only  a  few  small 
shops  which  lay  around  the  Pleissenburg  went  up  in  flames ; 
nevertheless  the  presence  of  the  desperate  incendiary,  and 
his  erroneous  impression  that  the  Squire  was  in  Leipzig, 
caused  unspeakable  consternation  in  the  city.  When  a 
troop  of  one  hundred  and  eighty  men  at  arms  that  had  been 
sent  against  him  returned  defeated,  nothing  else  remained 
for  the  city  councilors,  who  did  not  wish  to  jeopardize  the 
wealth  of  the  place,  but  to  bar  the  gates  completely  and  set 
the  citizens  to  keep  watch  day  and  night  outside  the  walls. 
In  vain  the  city  council  had  declarations  posted  in  the  vil- 
lages of  the  surrounding  country,  with  the  positive  assur- 
ance that  the  Squire  was  not  in  the  Pleissenburg.  The 
horse-dealer,  in  similar  manifestos,  insisted  that  he  was  in 
the  Pleissenburg  and  declared  that  if  the  Squire  were  not 
there,  he,  Kohlhaas,  would  at  any  rate  proceed  as  though  he 


^ 


346  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

were  until  he  should  have  been  told  the  name  of  the  place 
where  his  enemy  was  to  be  found.  The  Elector,  notified  by 
courier  of  the  straits  to  which  the  city  of  Leipzig  was  re- 
duced, declared  that  he  was  already  gathering  a  force  of 
two  thousand  men  and  would  put  himself  at  their  head  in 
order  to  capture  Kohlhaas.  He  administered  to  Sir  Otto 
von  Gorgas  a  severe  rebuke  for  the  misleading  and  ill- 
considered  artifice  to  which  he  had  resorted  to  rid  the 
vicinity  of  Wittenberg  of  the  incendiary.  Nor  can  any  one 
describe  the  confusion  which  seized  all  Saxony,  and  espe- 
cially the  electoral  capital,  when  it  was  learned  there  that 
in  all  the  villages  near  Leipzig  a  declaration  addressed  to 
Kohlhaas  had  been  placarded,  no  one  knew  by  whom,  to 
the  effect  that  ''  Wenzel,  the  Squire,  was  with  his  cousins 
Hinz  and  Kunz  in  Dresden." 

It  was  under  these  circumstances  that  Doctor  Martin 
Luther,  supported  by  the  authority  which  his  position  in 
the  world  gave  him,  undertook  the  task  of  forcing  Kohl- 
haas, by  the  power  of  kindly  words,  back  within  the  limits 
set  by  the  social  order  of  the  day.  Building  upon  an  ele- 
ment of  good  in  the  breast  of  the  incendiary,  he  had  posted 
in  all  the  cities  and  market-towns  of  the  Electorate  a  placard 
addressed  to  him,  which  read  as  follows : 

*'  Kohlhaas,  thou  who  claimest  to  be  sent  to  wield  the 
sword  of  justice,  what  is  it  that  thou,  presumptuous  man, 
art  making  bold  to  attempt  in  the  madness  of  thy  stone- 
blind  passion  —  thou  who  art  filled  from  head  to  foot  with 
injustice?  Because  the  sovereign,  to  whom  thou  art  sub- 
ject, has  denied  thee  thy  rights  —  thy  rights  in  the  struggle 
for  a  paltry  trifle  —  thou  arisest,  godless  man,  with  fire  and 
sword,  and  like  a  wolf  of  the  wilderness  dost  burst  upon  the 
peaceful  community  which  he  protects.  Thou,  who  mis- 
leadest  men  with  this  declaration  full  of  untruthfulness  and 
guile,  dost  thou  think,  sinner,  to  satisfy  God  therewith  in 
that  future  day  which  shall  shine  into  the  recesses  of  every 
heart?  How  canst  thou  say  that  thy  rights  have  been 
denied  thee  —  thou,  whose  savage  breast,  animated  by  the 


MICHAEL  KOHLHAAS  347 

inordinate  desire  for  base  revenge,  completely  gave  up  the 
endeavor  to  procure  justice  after  the  first  half-hearted 
attempts,  which  came  to  naught?  Is  a  bench  full  of  con- 
stables and  beadles  who  suppress  a  letter  that  is  presented, 
or  who  withhold  a  judgment  that  they  should  deliver  —  is 
this  thy  supreme  authority?  And  must  I  tell  thee,  impious 
man,  that  the  supreme  authority  of  the  land  knows  nothing 
whatever  about  thine  affair  —  nay,  more,  that  the  sov- 
ereign against  whom  thou  art  rebelling  does  not  even  know 
thy  name,  so  that  when  thou  shalt  one  day  come  before  the 
throne  of  God  thinking  to  accuse  him,  he  will  be  able  to  say 
with  a  serene  countenance,  '  I  have  done  no  wrong  to  this 
man.  Lord,  for  my  soul  is  ignorant  of  his  existence. '  Know 
that  the  sword  which  thou  wieldest  is  the  sword  of  robbery 
and  bloodthirstiness.  A  rebel  art  thou,  and  no  warrior  of 
the  righteous  Grod ;  wheel  and  gallows  are  thy  goal  on  earth 
—  gallows  and,  in  the  life  to  come,  damnation  which  is 
ordained  for  crime  and  godlessness. 

Wittenberg,  etc.  Martin  Luther." 

When  Sternbald  and  Waldmann,  to  their  great  conster- 
nation, discovered  the  placard  which  had  been  affixed  to 
the  gateway  of  the  castle  at  Liitzen  during  the  night,  Kohl- 
haas  within  the  castle  was  just  revolving  in  his  distracted 
mind  a  new  plan  for  the  burning  of  Leipzig  —  for  he  placed 
no  faith  in  the  notices  posted  in  the  villages  announcing  that 
Squire  Wenzel  was  in  Dresden,  since  they  were  not  signed 
by  any  one,  let  alone  by  the  municipal  council,  as  he  had 
required.  For  several  days  the  two  men  hoped  in  vain  that 
Kohlhaas  would  perceive  Luther's  placard,  for  they  did  not 
care  to  approach  him  on  the  subject.  Gloomy  and  absorbed 
in  thought,  he  did  indeed,  in  the  evening,  appear,  but  only 
to  give  his  brief  commands,  and  he  noticed  nothing. 
Finally  one  morning,  when  he  was  about  to  have  two  of  his 
followers  strung  up  for  plundering  in  the  vicinity  against 
his  express  orders,  Sternbald  and  Waldmann  determined 
to  call  his  attention  to  it.    With  the  pomp  which  he  had 


348  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

adopted  since  his  last  manifesto  —  a  large  cherubim's 
sword  on  a  red  leather  cushion,  ornamented  with  golden 
tassels,  borne  before  him,  and  twelve  men  with  burning 
torches  following  him  —  Kohlhaas  was  just  returning  from 
the  place  of  execution,  while  the  people  on  both  sides 
timidly  made  way  for  him.  At  that  moment  the  two  men, 
with  their  swords  under  their  arms,  walked,  in  a  way  that 
could  not  fail  to  excite  his  surprise,  around  the  pillar  to 
which  the  placard  was  attached. 

When  Kohlhaas,  sunk  in  thought  and  with  his  hands 
folded  behind  his  back,  came  under  the  portal,  he  raised 
his  eyes  and  started  back  in  surprise,  and  as  the  two  men 
at  sight  of  him  drew  back  respectfully,  he  advanced  with 
rapid  steps  to  the  pillar,  watching  them  absent-mindedly. 
But  who  can  describe  the  storm  of  emotion  in  his  soul  when 
he  beheld  there  the  paper  accusing  him  of  injustice,  signed 
by  the  most  beloved  and  honored  name  he  knew  —  the  name 
of  Martin  Luther!  A  dark  flush  spread  over  his  face; 
taking  off  his  helmet  he  read  the  document  through  twice 
from  beginning  to  end,  then  walked  back  among  his  men 
with  irresolute  glances  as  though  he  were  about  to  speak, 
yet  said  nothing.  He  unfastened  the  paper  from  the  pillar, 
read  it  through  once  again,  and  cried,  ' '  Waldmann !  have 
my  horse  saddled !  "  —  then, ' '  Sternbald,  follow  me  into  the 
castle!  "  and  with  that  he  disappeared.  It  had  needed  but 
these  few  words  of  that  godly  man  to  disarm  him  suddenly 
in  the  midst  of  all  the  dire  destruction  that  he  was  plotting. 

He  threw  on  the  disguise  of  a  Thuringian  farmer  and  told 
Sternbald  that  a  matter  of  the  greatest  importance  obliged 
him  to  go  to  Wittenberg.  In  the  presence  of  some  of  his 
most  trustworthy  men  he  turned  over  to  Sternbald  the 
command  of  the  band  remaining  in  Liitzen,  and  with  the 
assurance  that  he  would  be  back  in  three  days,  during 
which  time  no  attack  was  to  be  feared,  he  departed  for 
Wittenberg.  He  put  up  at  an  inn  under  an  assumed  name, 
and  at  nightfall,  wrapped  in  his  cloak  and  provided  with 
a  brace  of  pistols  which  he  had  taken  at  the  sack  of  Tronka 


MICHAEL  KOHLHAAS  349 

Castle,  entered  Luther's  room.  When  Luther,  who  was 
sitting  at  his  desk  with  a  mass  of  books  and  papers  before 
him,  saw  the  extraordinary  stranger  enter  his  room  and 
bolt  the  door  behind  him,  he  asked  who  he  was  and  what 
he  wanted.  The  man,  who  was  holding  his  hat  respectfully 
in  his  hand,  had  no  sooner,  with  a  diffident  presentiment  of 
the  terror  that  he  would  cause,  made  answer  that  he  was 
Michael  Kohlhaas,  the  horse-dealer,  than  Luther  cried  out, 
* '  Stand  far  back  from  me ! ' '  and  rising  from  the  desk 
added,  as  he  hurried  toward  a  bell,  '*  Your  breath  is  pesti- 
lence, your  presence  destruction!  " 

Without  stirring  from  the  spot  Kohlhaas  drew  his  pistol 
and  said,  ''  Most  reverend  Sir,  if  you  touch  the  bell  this 
pistol  will  stretch  me  lifeless  at  your  feet !  Sit  down  and 
hear  me.  You  are  not  safer  among  the  angels,  whose 
psalms  you  are  writing  down,  than  you  are  with  me. ' ' 

Luther  sat  down  and  asked,  '*  What  do  you  want?  " 
Kohlhaas  answered,  ''  I  wish  to  refute  the  opinion  you 
have  of  me,  that  I  am  an  unjust  man !  You  told  me  in  your 
placard  that  my  sovereign  knows  nothing  about  my  case. 
Very  well;  procure  me  a  safe-conduct  and  I  will  go  to 
Dresden  and  lay  it  before  him." 

' '  Impious  and  terrible  man !  ' '  cried  Luther,  puzzled  and, 
at  the  same  time,  reassured  by  these  words.  **  Who  gave 
you  the  right  to  attack  Squire  Tronka  in  pursuance  of  a 
decree  issued  on  your  own  authority,  and,  when  you  did 
not  find  him  in  his  castle,  to  visit  with  fire  and  sword  the 
whole  community  which  protects  him?  " 

Kohlhaas  answered,  ' '  Eeverend  Sir,  no  one,  henceforth. 
Information  which  I  received  from  Dresden  deceived  and 
misled  me !  The  war  which  I  am  waging  against  society  is 
a  crime,  so  long  as  I  haven't  been  cast  out  —  and  you  have 
assured  me  that  I  have  not." 

"  Cast  out !  "  cried  Luther,  looking  at  him.  **  What  mad 
thoughts  have  taken  possession  of  you?  Who  could  have 
cast  you  out  from  the  community  of  the  state  in  which  you 
lived?    Indeed  where,  as  long  as  states  have  existed,  has 


350  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

there  ever  been  a  case  of  any  one,  no  matter  who,  being  cast 
out  of  such  a  community?  " 

'*  I  call  that  man  cast  out,"  answered  Kohlhaas,  clench- 
ing his  fist,  "  who  is  denied  the  protection  of  the  laws.  For 
I  need  this  protection,  if  my  peaceable  business  is  to  pros- 
per. Yes,  it  is  for  this  that,  with  all  my  possessions,  I  take 
refuge  in  this  community,  and  he  who  denies  me  this  pro- 
tection casts  me  out  among  the  savages  of  the  desert;  he 
places  in  my  hand  —  how  can  you  try  to  deny  it?  —  the  club 
with  which  to  protect  myself." 

"  Who  has  denied  you  the  protection  of  the  laws?  "  cried 
Luther.  '^  Did  I  not  write  you  that  your  sovereign,  to 
whom  you  addressed  your  complaint,  has  never  heard  of  it? 
If  state-servants  behind  his  back  suppress  lawsuits  or 
otherwise  trifle  with  his  sacred  name  without  his  knowl- 
edge, who  but  God  has  the  right  to  call  him  to  account  for 
choosing  such  servants,  and  are  you,  lost  and  terrible  man, 
entitled  to  judge  him  therefor?  " 

''Very  well,"  answered  Kohlhaas,  "if  the  sovereign 
does  not  cast  me  out  I  will  return  again  to  the  community 
which  he  protects.  Procure  for  me,  I  repeat  it,  safe- 
conduct  to  Dresden;  then  I  will  disperse  the  band  of  men 
that  I  have  collected  in  the  castle  at  Liitzen  and  I  will  once 
again  lay  my  complaint,  which  was  rejected,  before  the 
courts  of  the  land." 

With  an  expression  of  vexation,  Luther  tossed  in  a  heap 
the  papers  that  were  lying  on  his  desk,  and  was  silent.  The 
attitude  of  defiance  which  this  singular  man  had  assumed 
toward  the  state  irritated  him,  and  reflecting  upon  the  judg- 
ment which  Kohlhaas  had  issued  at  Kohlhaasenbriick 
against  the  Squire,  he  asked  what  it  was  that  he  demanded 
of  the  tribunal  at  Dresden.  Kohlhaas  answered,  "  The 
punishment  of  the  Squire  according  to  the  law ;  restoration 
of  the  horses  to  their  former  condition;  and  compensation 
for  the  damages  which  I,  as  well  as  my  groom  Herse,  who 
fell  at  Miihlberg,  have  suffered  from  the  outrage  perpe- 
trated upon  us." 


MICHAEL  KOHLHAAS  351 

Luther  cried,  '  *  Compensation  for  damages !  Money  by 
the  thousands,  from  Jews  and  Christians,  on  notes  and 
securities,  you  have  borrowed  to  defray  the  expenses  of 
your  wild  revenge !  Shall  you  put  that  amount  also  on  the 
bill  when  it  comes  to  reckoning  up  the  costs  ? '  * 

* '  God  forbid !  ' '  answered  Kohlhaas.  * '  House  and  farm 
and  the  means  that  I  possessed  1  do  not  demand  back,  any 
more  than  the  expenses  of  my  wife 's  funeral !  Herse  's  old 
mother  will  present  the  bill  for  her  son's  medical  treatment, 
as  well  as  a  list  of  those  things  which  he  lost  at  Tronka 
Castle;  and  the  loss  which  I  suffered  on  account  of  not 
selling  the  black  horses  the  government  may  have  estimated 
by  an  expert." 

Luther  exclaimed,  as  he  gazed  at  him,  "  Mad,  incompre- 
hensible, and  amazing  man!  After  your  sword  has  taken 
the  most  ferocious  revenge  upon  the  Squire  which  could 
well  be  imagined,  what  impels  you  to  insist  upon  a  judg- 
ment against  him,  the  severity  of  which,  when  it  is  finally 
pronounced,  will  fall  so  lightly  upon  him?  " 

Kohlhaas  answered,  while  a  tear  rolled  down  his  cheek, 
*'  Most  reverend  Sir!  It  has  cost  me  my  wife;  Kohlhaas 
intends  to  prove  to  the  world  that  she  did  not  perish  in  an 
unjust  quarrel.  Do  you,  in  these  particulars,  yield  to  my 
will  and  let  the  court  of  justice  speak;  in  all  other  points 
that  may  be  contested  I  will  yield  to  you." 

Luther  said,  *'  See  here,  what  you  demand  is  just,  if 
indeed  the  circumstances  are  such  as  is  commonly  reported ; 
and  if  you  had  only  succeeded  in  having  your  suit  decided 
by  the  sovereign  before  you  arbitrarily  proceeded  to  avenge 
yourself,  I  do  not  doubt  that  your  demands  would  have  been 
granted,  point  for  point.  But,  all  things  considered,  would 
it  not  have  been  better  for  you  to  pardon  the  Squire  for 
your  Redeemer's  sake,  take  back  the  black  horses,  thin  and 
worn-out  as  they  were,  and  mount  and  ride  home  to  Kohl- 
haasenbriick  to  fatten  them  in  your  own  stable?  " 

Kohlhaas  answered,  **  Perhaps !  "  Then,  stepping  to  the 
window, '  *  Perhaps  not,  either !    Had  I  known  that  I  should 


352  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

be  obliged  to  set  them  on  their  feet  again  with  blood  from 
the  heart  of  my  dear  wife,  I  might,  reverend  Sir,  perhaps 
have  done  as  you  say  and  not  have  considered  a  bushel  of 
oats!  But  since  they  have  now  cost  me  so  dear,  let  the 
matter  run  its  course,  say  I ;  have  judgment  be  pronounced 
as  is  due  me,  and  have  the  Squire  fatten  my  horses  for  me." 

Turning  back  to  his  papers  -with,  conflicting  thoughts, 
Luther  said  that  he  would  enter  into  negotiations  with  the 
Elector  on  his  behalf;  in  the  mean  time  let  him  remain 
quietly  in  the  castle  at  Liitzen.  If  the  sovereign  would  con- 
sent to  accord  him  free-conduct,  they  would  make  the  fact 
known  to  him  by  posting  it  publicly.  ''To  be  sure,"  he 
continued,  as  Kohlhaas  bent  to  kiss  his  hand,  "  whether 
the  Elector  T\dll  be  lenient,  I  do  not  know,  for  I  have  heard 
that  he  has  collected  an  army  and  is  about  to  start  out  to 
apprehend  you  in  the  castle  at  Liitzen ;  however,  as  I  have 
already  told  you,  there  shall  be  no  lack  of  effort  on  my 
part  "  —  and,  as  he  spoke,  he  got  up  from  his  chair  pre- 
pared to  dismiss  him.  Kohlhaas  declared  that  Luther's 
intercession  completely  reassured  him  on  that  point,  where- 
upon Luther  bowed  to  him  with  a  sweep  of  his  hand. 
Kohlhaas,  however,  suddenly  sank  down  on  one  knee  before 
him  and  said  he  had  still  another  favor  to  ask  of  him  —  the 
fact  was,  that  at  Whitsuntide,  when  it  was  his  custom  to 
receive  the  Holy  Communion,  he  had  failed  to  go  to  church 
on  account  of  this  warlike  expedition  of  his.  Would  Luther 
have  the  goodness  to  receive  his  confession  without  further 
preparation  and,  in  exchange,  administer  to  him  the  blessed 
Holy  Sacrament?  Luther,  after  reflecting  a  short  time, 
scanned  his  face,  and  said,  "  Yes,  Kohlhaas,  I  will  do  so. 
But  the  Lord,  whose  body  you  desire,  forgave  his  enemy. 
Will  you  likewise,"  he  added,  as  the  other  looked  at  him 
disconcerted,  "  forgive  the  Squire  who  has  offended  you? 
Will  you  go  to  Tronka  Castle,  mount  your  black  horses,  ride 
them  back  to  Kohlhaasenbriick  and  fatten  them  there!  " 

' '  Your  Reverence !  ' '  said  Kohlhaas  flushing,  and  seized 
his  hand  — 

''Well!" 


MICHAEL  KOHLHAAS  353 

*  *  Even  the  Lord  did  not  forgive  all  his  enemies.  Let  me 
forgive  the  Elector,  my  two  gentlemen  the  castellan  and 
the  steward,  the  lords  Hinz  and  Kunz,  and  whoever  else 
may  have  injured  me  in  this  affair;  but,  if  it  is  possible, 
suffer  me  to  force  the  Squire  to  fatten  my  black  horses 
again  for  me." 

At  these  words  Luther  turned  his  back  on  him,  with  a 
displeased  glance,  and  rang  the  bell.  In  answer  to  the 
summons  an  amanuensis  came  into  the  anteroom  with  a 
light,  and  Kohlhaas,  wiping  his  eyes,  rose  from  his  knees 
disconcerted ;  and  since  the  amanuensis  was  working  in  vain 
at  the  door,  which  was  bolted,  and  Luther  had  sat  down 
again  to  his  papers,  Kohlhaas  opened  the  door  for  the  man. 
Luther  glanced  for  an  instant  over  his  shoulder  at  the 
stranger,  and  said  to  the  amanuensis,  '  *  Light  the  way ! ' ' 
whereupon  the  latter,  somewhat  surprised  at  the  sight  of 
the  visitor,  took  down  from  the  wall  the  key  to  the  outside 
door  and  stepped  back  to  the  half-opened  door  of  the  room, 
waiting  for  the  stranger  to  take  his  departure.  Kohlhaas, 
holding  his  hat  nervously  in  both  hands,  said,  "And  so, 
most  reverend  Sir,  I  cannot  partake  of  the  benefit  of  recon- 
ciliation, which  I  solicited  of  you  ?  ' ' 

Luther  answered  shortly,  "  Reconciliation  with  your 
Savior — no !  With  the  sovereign  —  that  depends  upon  the 
success  of  the  attempt  which  I  promised  you  to  make." 
And  then  he  motioned  to  the  amanuensis  to  carry  out,  with- 
out further  delay,  the  command  he  had  given  him.  Kohl- 
haas laid  both  hands  on  his  heart  with  an  expression  of 
painful  emotion,  and  disappeared  after  the  man  who  was 
lighting  him  down  the  stairs. 

On  the  next  morning  Luther  dispatched  a  message  to  the 
Elector  of  Saxony  in  which,  after  a  bitter  allusion  to  the 
lords,  Hinz  and  Kunz  Tronka,  Chamberlain  and  Cup-bearer 
to  his  Highness,  who,  as  was  generally  known,  had  sup- 
pressed the  petition,  he  informed  the  sovereign,  with  the 
candor  that  was  peculiar  to  him,  that  under  such  notorious 
circumstances  there  was  nothing  to  do  but  to  accept  the 

Vol.  IV  — 23 


354  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

proposition  of  the  horse-dealer  and  to  grant  him  an 
amnesty  for  what  had  occurred  so  that  he  might  have 
opportunity  to  renew  his  lawsuit.  Public  opinion,  Luther 
remarked,  was  on  the  side  of  this  man  to  a  very  dangerous 
extent  —  so  much  so  that,  even  in  Wittenberg,  which  had 
three  times  been  burnt  down  by  him,  there  was  a  voice 
raised  in  his  favor.  And  since,  if  his  offer  were  refused, 
Kohlhaas  would  undoubtedly  bring  it  to  the  knowledge  of 
the  people,  accompanied  by  malicious  comments,  and  the 
populace  might  easily  be  so  far  misled  that  nothing  further 
could  be  done  against  him  by  the  authorities  of  the  state, 
Luther  concluded  that,  in  this  extraordinary  case,  scruples 
about  entering  into  negotiations  "^^dtli  a  subject  who  had 
taken  up  arms  must  be  passed  over;  that,  as  a  matter  of 
fact,  the  latter,  by  the  conduct  which  had  been  observed 
toward  him,  had  in  a  sense  been  cast  out  of  the  body  politic, 
and,  in  short,  in  order  to  put  an  end  to  the  matter,  he  should 
be  regarded  rather  as  a  foreign  power  which  had  attacked 
the  land  (and,  since  he  was  not  a  Saxon  subject,  he  really 
might,  in  a  way,  be  regarded  as  such),  than  as  a  rebel  in 
revolt  against  the  throne. 

When  the  Elector  received  this  letter  there  were  present 
at  the  palace  Prince  Christiern  of  Meissen,  Generalissimo 
of  the  Empire,  uncle  of  that  Prince  Friedrich  of  Meissen 
who  had  been  defeated  at  Miihlberg  and  was  still  laid  up 
with  his  wounds,  also  the  Grand  Chancellor  of  the  Tribunal, 
Count  Wrede,  Count  Kallheim,  President  of  the  Chancery 
of  State,  and  the  two  lords,  Hinz  and  Kunz  Tronka,  the 
former  Cup-bearer,  the  latter  Chamberlain  —  all  confiden- 
tial friends  of  the  sovereign  from  his  youth.  The  Chamber- 
lain, Sir  Kunz,  who  in  his  capacity  of  privy  councilor,  at- 
tended to  the  private  correspondence  of  his  master  and  had 
the  right  to  use  his  name  and  seal,  was  the  first  to  speak. 
He  once  more  explained  in  detail  that  never,  on  his  own 
authority,  would  he  have  suppressed  the  complaint  which 
the  horse-dealer  had  lodged  in  court  against  his  cousin  the 
Squire,  had  it  not  been  for  the  fact  that,  misled  by  false 


MICHAEL  KOHLHAAS  355 

statements,  he  had  believed  it  an  absolutely  unfounded  and 
worthless  piece  of  mischief -making.  After  this  he  passed 
on  to  consider  the  present  state  of  affairs.  He  remarked 
that  by  neither  divine  nor  human  laws  had  the  horse-dealer 
been  warranted  in  wreaking  such  horrible  vengeance  as  he 
had  allowed  himself  to  take  for  this  mistake.  The  Chamber- 
lain then  proceeded  to  describe  the  glory  that  would  fall 
upon  the  damnable  head  of  the  latter  if  they  should  negoti- 
ate with  him  as  with  a  recognized  military  power,  and  the 
ignominy  which  would  thereby  be  reflected  upon  the  sacred 
person  of  the  Elector  seemed  to  him  so  intolerable  that, 
carried  away  by  the  fire  of  his  eloquence,  he  declared  he 
would  rather  let  worst  come  to  worst,  see  the  judgment  of 
the  mad  rebel  carried  out  and  his  cousin,  the  Squire,  led 
off  to  Kohlhaasenbriick  to  fatten  the  black  horses,  than 
know  that  the  proposition  made  by  Dr.  Luther  had  been 
accepted. 

The  Lord  High  Chancellor  of  the  Tribunal  of  Justice, 
Count  Wrede,  turning  half  way  round  toward  him,  ex- 
pressed regret  that  the  Chamberlain  had  not,  in  the  first 
instance,  been  inspired  with  such  tender  solicitude  for  the 
reputation  of  the  sovereign  as  he  was  displaying  in  the 
solution  of  this  undoubtedly  delicate  affair.  He  repre- 
sented to  the  Elector  his  hesitation  about  employing  the 
power  of  the  state  to  cany  out  a  manifestlj^  unjust  meas- 
ure. He  remarked,  with  a  significant  allusion  to  the  great 
numbers  which  the  horse-dealer  was  continually  recruiting 
in  the  country,  that  the  thread  of  the  crime  threatened  in 
this  way  to  be  spun  out  indefinitely,  and  declared  that  the 
only  way  to  sunder  it  and  extricate  the  government  happily 
from  that  ugly  quarrel  was  to  act  with  plain  honesty  and  to 
make  good,  directly  and  without  respect  of  person,  the 
mistake  which  they  had  been  guilty  of  committing. 

Prince  Christiern  of  Meissen,  when  asked  by  the  Elector 
to  express  his  opinion,  turned  deferentially  toward  the 
Grand  Chancellor  and  declared  that  the  latter 's  way  of 
thinking  naturally  inspired  in  him  the  greatest  respect,  but, 


356  THE  GEmiAN  CLASSICS 

in  -wdshing  to  aid  Kolilhaas  to  secure  justice,  the  Chancellor 
failed  to  consider  that  he  was  wronging  Wittenberg, 
Leipzig,  and  the  entire  country  that  had  been  injured  by 
him,  in  depriving  them  of  their  just  claim  for  indemnity 
or  at  least  for  punishment  of  the  culprit.  The  order  of  the 
state  was  so  disturbed  in  its  relation  to  this  man  that  it 
would  be  difficult  to  set  it  right  by  an  axiom  taken  from  the 
science  of  law.  Therefore,  in  accord  with  the  opinion  of 
the  Chamberlain,  he  was  in  favor  of  employing  the  means 
appointed  for  such  cases  —  that  is  to  say,  there  should  be 
gathered  a  force  large  enough  to  enable  them  either  to 
capture  or  to  crush  the  horse-dealer,  who  had  planted  him- 
self in  the  castle  at  Liitzen.  The  Chamberlain  brought  over 
two  chairs  from  the  wall  and  obligingly  placed  them  to- 
gether in  the  middle  of  the  room  for  the  Elector  and  the 
Prince,  saying,  as  he  did  so,  that  he  was  delighted  to  find 
that  a  man  of  the  latter 's  uprightness  and  acumen  agreed 
with  him  about  the  means  to  be  employed  in  settling  an 
affair  of  such  varied  aspect.  The  Prince,  placing  his  hand 
on  the  chair  without  sitting  dowTi,  looked  at  him,  and 
assured  him  that  he  had  little  cause  to  rejoice  on  that 
account  since  the  first  step  connected  with  this  course  would 
be  the  issuing  of  a  warrant  for  his  arrest,  to  be  followed  by 
a  suit  for  misuse  of  the  sovereign's  name.  For  if  neces- 
sity required  that  the  veil  be  drawn  before  the  throne  of 
justice  over  a  series  of  crimes,  which  finally  would  be  unable 
to  find  room  before  the  bar  of  judgment,  since  each  led  to 
another,  and  no  end  —  this  at  least  did  not  apply  to  the 
original  offense  which  had  given  birth  to  them.  First  and 
foremost,  he,  the  Chamberlain,  must  be  tried  for  his  life  if 
the  state  was  to  be  authorized  to  crush  the  horse-dealer, 
whose  case,  as  was  well  known,  was  exceedingly  just,  and  in 
whose  hand  they  had  placed  the  sword  that  he  was  wielding. 
The  discomfited  Chamberlain  at  these  words  gazed  at 
the  Elector,  who  turned  away,  his  whole  face  flushing,  and 
walked  over  to  the  window.  After  an  embarrassing  silence 
on  all  sides,  Count  Kallheim  said  that  this  was  not  the  way 


MICHAEL  KOHLHAAS  357 

to  extricate  themselves  from  the  magic  circle  in  which  they 
were  captive.  His  nephew,  Prince  Friedrich,  might  be  put 
upon  trial  with  equal  justice,  for  in  the  peculiar  expedition 
which  he  had  undertaken  against  Kohlhaas  he  had  over- 
stepped his  instructions  in  many  ways  —  so  much  so  that, 
if  one  were  to  inquire  about  the  whole  long  list  of  those  who 
had  caused  the  embarrassment  in  which  they  now  found 
themselves,  he  too  would  have  to  be  named  among  them  and 
called  to  account  by  the  sovereign  for  what  had  occurred 
at  Miihlberg. 

While  the  Elector,  with  doubtful  glances,  walked  up  to  his 
table,  the  Cup-bearer,  Sir  Hinz  Tronka,  began  to  speak  in 
his  turn.  He  did  not  understand,  he  said,  how  the  govern- 
mental decree  which  was  to  be  passed  could  escape  men  of 
such  wisdom  as  were  here  assembled.  The  horse-dealer, 
so  far  as  he  knew,  in  return  for  mere  safe-conduct  to  Dres- 
den and  a  renewed  investigation  of  his  case,  had  promised 
to  disband  the  force  with  which  he  had  attacked  the  land. 
It  did  not  follow  from  this,  however,  that  he  must  be 
granted  an  amnesty  for  the  wanton  revenge  he  had  taken 
into  his  o\\ti  hands.  These  were  two  different  legal  con- 
cepts w^hich  Dr.  Luther,  as  well  as  the  council  of  state, 
seemed  to  have  confounded.  ' '  When, ' '  he  continued,  lay- 
ing his  finger  beside  his  nose,  '*  the  judgment  concerning 
the  black  horses  has  been  pronounced  by  the  Tribunal  at 
Dresden,  no  matter  what  it  may  be,  nothing  prevents  us 
from  imprisoning  Kohlhaas  on  the  ground  of  his  incen- 
diarism and  robberies.  That  would  be  a  diplomatic  solu- 
tion of  the  affair,  which  would  unite  the  advantages  of  the 
opinion  of  both  statesmen  and  would  be  sure  to  win  the 
applause  of  the  world  and  of  posterity."  The  Prince,  as 
well  as  the  Lord  Chancellor,  answered  this  speech  of  Sir 
Hinz  with  a  mere  glance,  and,  as  the  discussion  accordingly 
seemed  at  an  end,  the  Elector  said  that  he  would  turn  over 
in  his  own  mind,  until  the  next  sitting  of  the  State  Council, 
the  various  opinions  which  had  been  expressed  before  him. 
It  seemed  as  if  the  preliminary  measure  mentioned  by  the 


K^- 


358  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

Prince  had  deprived  the  Elector's  heart,  which  was  very- 
sensitive  where  friendship  was  concerned,  of  the  desire  to 
proceed  with  the  campaign  against  Kohlhaas,  all  the  prepa- 
rations for  which  were  completed ;  at  least  he  bade  the  l^ord 
Chancellor,  Count  Wrede,  whose  opinion  appeared  to  him 
the  most  expedient,  to  remain  after  the  others  left.  The 
latter  showed  him  letters  from  which  it  appeared  that,  as 
a  matter  of  fact,  the  horse-dealer's  forces  had  already  come 
to  number  four  hundred  men ;  indeed,  in  view  of  the  general 
discontent  which  prevailed  all  over  the  country'-  on  account 
of  the  misdemeanors  of  the  Chamberlain,  he  might  reckon 
on  doubling  or  even  tripling  this  number  in  a  short  time. 
Without  further  hesitation  the  Elector  decided  to  accept 
the  advice  given  him  by  Dr.  Luther ;  accordingly  he  handed 
over  to  Count  Wrede  the  entire  management  of  the  Kohl- 
haas affair.  Only  a  few  days  later  a  placard  appeared,  the 
essence  of  which  we  give  as  follows : 

^^~We,  etc.,  etc.,  Elector  of  Saxony,  in  especially  gracious 
consideration  of  the  intercession  made  to  us  by  Doctor 
Martin  Luther,  do  grant  to  Michael  Kohlhaas,  horse-dealer 
from  the  territory  of  Brandenburg,  safe-conduct  to  Dresden 
for  the  purpose  of  a  renewed  investigation  of  his  case,  on 
condition  that,  within  three  days  after  sight,  he  lay  down 
the  arms  to  which  he  has  had  recourse.  It  is  to  be  under- 
stood, however,  that  in  the  unlikely  event  of  Kohlhaas'  suit 
concerning  the  black  horses  being  rejected  by  the  Tribunal 
at  Dresden,  he  shall  be  prosecuted  with  all  the  severity  of 
the  law  for,arbitrarily  undertaking  to  procure  justice  for 
himself,  ^^hould  his  suit,  however,  terminate  otherwise, 
wertvTirshow  mercy  to  him  and  his  whole  band,  instead  of 
inflicting  deserved  punishment,  and  a  complete  amnesty 
shall  be  accorded  him  for  the  acts  of  violence  which  he  has 
committed  in  Saxony." 

Kohlhaas  had  no  sooner  received  through  Dr.  Luther  a 
copy  of  this  placard,  which  had  been  posted  in  all  the  public 
squares  throughout  the  land,  than,  in  spite  of  the  condi- 
tional language  in  which  it  was  couched,  he  immediately 


MICHAEL  KOHLHAAS  359 

dispersed  his  whole  band  of  followers  with  presents,  ex- 
pressions of  gratitude,  and  appropriate  admonitions.  He 
deposited  whatever  he  had  taken  in  the  way  of  money, 
weapons,  and  chattels,  with  the  courts  at  Liitzen,  to  be  held 
as  the  property  of  the  Elector,  and  after  he  had  dispatched 
Waldmann  to  the  bailiff  at  Kohlhaasenbriick  with  letters 
about  repurchasing  his  farm,  if  that  were  still  possible,  and 
had  sent  Sternbald  to  Schwerin  for  his  children  whom  he 
wished  to  have  with  him  again,  he  left  the  castle  at  Liitzen 
and  went,  without  being  recognized,  to  Dresden,  carrying 
with  him  in  bonds  the  remnant  of  his  little  property. 

Day  was  just  breaking  and  the  whole  city  was  still  asleep 
when  he  knocked  at  the  door  of  the  little  dwelling  situated 
in  the  suburb  of  Pirna,  which  still,  thanks  to  the  honesty 
of  the  bailiff,  belonged  to  him.  Thomas,  the  old  porter,  in 
charge  of  the  establishment,  who  on  opening  the  door  was 
surprised  and  startled  to  see  his  master,  was  told  to  take 
word  to  the  Prince  of  Meissen,  in  the  Government  Office, 
that  Kohlhaas  the  horse-dealer  had  arrived.  The  Prince 
of  Meissen,  on  hearing  this  news,  deemed  it  expedient  to 
inform  himself  immediately  of  the  relation  in  which  they 
stood  to  this  man.  When,  shortly  afterward,  he  appeared 
with  a  retinue  of  knights  and  servants,  he  found  an  immense 
crowd  of  people  already  gathered  in  the  streets  leading  to 
Kohlhaas'  dwelling.  The  news  that  the  destroying  angel 
was  there,  who  punished  the  oppressors  of  the  people  with 
fire  and  sword,  had  aroused  all  Dresden,  the  city  as  well  as 
the  suburbs.  They  were  obliged  to  bolt  the  door  of  the 
house  against  the  press  of  curious  people,  and  the  boys 
climbed  up  to  the  windows  in  order  to  get  a  peep  at  the 
incendiary,  who  was  eating  his  breakfast  inside. 

As  soon  as  the  Prince,  w^th  the  help  of  the  guard  who 
cleared  the  way  for  him,  had  pushed  into  the  house  and 
entered  Kohlhaas'  room,  he  asked  the  latter,  who  was 
standing  half  undressed  before  a  table,  whether  he  was 
Kohlhaas,  the  horse-dealer.  Kohlhaas,  drawing  from  his 
belt   a  wallet   containing   several   papers   concerning  his 


360  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

affairs  and  handing  it  respectfully  to  the  Prince,  answered, 
"  Yes;"  and  added  that,  in  conformity  with  the  immunity 
granted  him  by  the  sovereign,  he  had  come  to  Dresden, 
after  disbanding  his  force,  in  order  to  institute  proceedings 
against  Squire  Wenzel  Tronka  on  account  of  the  black 
horses. 

The  Prince,  after  a  hasty  glance  which  took  Kohlhaas 
in  from  head  to  foot,  looked  through  the  papers  in  the  wal- 
let and  had  him  explain  the  nature  of  a  certificate  which 
he  found  there  executed  by  the  court  at  Lutzen,  concerning 
the  deposit  made  in  favor  of  the  treasury  of  the  Electorate. 
After  he  had  further  tested  him  with  various  questions 
about  his  children,  his  wealth,  and  the  sort  of  life  he  in- 
tended to  lead  in  the  future,  in  order  to  find  out  what  kind 
of  man  he  was,  and  had  concluded  that  in  every  respect 
they  might  set  their  minds  at  rest  about  him,  he  gave  him 
back  the  documents  and  said  that  nothing  now  stood  in  the 
way  of  his  lawsuit,  and  that,  in  order  to  institute  it,  he 
should  just  apply  directly  to  the  Lord  High  Chancellor  of 
the  Tribunal,  Count  Wrede  himself.  "  In  the  meantime," 
said  the  Prince  after  a  pause,  crossing  over  to  the  window 
and  gazing  in  amazement  at  the  people  gathered  in  front  of 
the  house,  ''  you  will  be  obliged  to  consent  to  a  guard  for 
the  first  few  days,  to  protect  you  in  your  house  as  well  as 
when  you  go  out!  "  Kohlhaas  looked  down  disconcerted, 
and  was  silent.  *'  Well,  no  matter,"  said  the  Prince,  leav- 
ing the  window ;  '  *  whatever  happens,  you  have  yourself 
to  blame  for  it;"  and  with  that  he  turned  again  toward  the 
door  with  the  intention  of  leaving  the  house.  Kohlhaas, 
who  had  reflected,  said  *'  My  lord,  do  as  you  like!  If  you 
will  give  me  your  word  that  the  guard  will  be  withdrawn 
as  soon  as  I  wish  it,  I  have  no  objection  to  this  measure." 
The  Prince  answered,  **  That  is  understood,  of  course." 
Ho  informed  the  three  foot-soldiers,  who  were  appointed 
for  this  purpose,  that  the  man  in  whose  house  they  were  to 
remain  was  free,  and  that  it  was  merely  for  his  protection 
that  they  were  to  follow  him  when  he  went  out;  he  then 


MICHAEL  KOHLHAAS  361 

saluted  the  horse-dealer  with  a  condescending  wave  of  the 
hand,  and  took  his  leave. 

Toward  midday  Kohlhaas  went  to  Count  Wrede,  Lord 
High  Chancellor  of  the  Tribunal;  he  was  escorted  by  his 
three  foot-soldiers  and  followed  by  an  innumerable  crowd, 
who,  having  been  warned  by  the  police,  did  not  try  to  harm 
him  in  any  way.  The  Chancellor  received  him  in  his  ante- 
chamber with  benignity  and  kindness,  conversed  with  him 
for  two  whole  hours,  and  after  he  had  had  the  entire  course 
of  the  affair  related  to  him  from  beginning  to  end,  referred 
Kohlhaas  to  a  celebrated  lawyer  in  the  city  who  was  a  mem- 
ber of  the  Tribunal,  so  that  he  might  have  the  complaint 
drawn  up  and  presented  immediately. 

Kohlhaas,  without  further  delay,  betook  himself  to  the 
lawyer's  house  and  had  the  suit  dra\vn  up  exactly  like  the 
original  one  which  had  been  quashed.  He  demanded  the 
punishment  of  the  Squire  according  to  law,  the  restoration 
of  the  horses  to  their  former  condition,  and  compensation 
for  the  damages  he  had  sustained  as  well  as  for  those  suf- 
fered by  his  groom,  Herse,  who  had  fallen  at  Miihlberg  — 
in  behalf  of  the  latter 's  old  mother.  When  this  was  done 
Kohlhaas  returned  home,  accompanied  by  the  crowd  that 
still  continued  to  gape  at  him,  firmly  resolved  in  his  mind 
not  to  leave  the  house  again  unless  called  away  by  impor- 
tant business. 

In  the  mean  time  the  Squire  had  been  released  from  his 
imprisonment  in  Wittenberg,  and  after  recovering  from  a 
dangerous  attack  of  erysipelas  which  had  caused  inflam- 
mation of  his  foot,  had  been  summoned  by  the  Supreme 
Court  in  peremptory  terms  to  present  himself  in  Dresden 
to  answer  the  suit  instituted  against  him  by  the  horse- 
dealer,  Kohlhaas,  with  regard  to  a  pair  of  black  horses 
which  had  been  unlawfully  taken  from  him  and  worked  to 
death.  The  Tronka  brothers,  the  Chamberlain  and  the  Cup- 
bearer, cousins  of  the  Squire,  at  Avhose  house  he  alighted, 
received  him  with  the  greatest  bitterness  and  contempt. 
They  called  him  a  miserable  good-for-nothing,  who  had 


362  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

brought  shame  and  disgrace  on  the  whole  family,  told  him 
that  he  would  inevitably  lose  his  suit,  and  called  upon  him  to 
prepare  at  once  to  produce  the  black  horses,  which  he  would 
be  condemned  to  fatten  to  the  scornful  laughter  of  the 
world.  The  Squire  answered  in  a  weak  and  trembling  voice 
that  he  was  more  deserving  of  pity  than  any  other  man 
on  earth.  He  swore  that  he  had  kno^^^l  but  little  about 
the  whole  cursed  affair  which  had  plunged  him  into  misfor- 
tune, and  that  the  castellan  and  the  steward  were  to  blame 
for  everything,  because  they,  without  his  knowledge  or  con- 
sent, had  used  the  horses  in  getting  in  the  crops  and,  by 
overworking  them,  partly  in  their  own  fields,  had  rendered 
them  unfit  for  further  use.  He  sat  down  as  he  said  this 
and  begged  them  not  to  mortify  and  insult  him  and  thus 
wantonly  cause  a  relapse  of  the  illness  from  which  he  had 
but  recently  recovered. 

Since  there  was  nothing  else  to  be  done,  the  next  day, 
at  the  request  of  their  cousin,  the  Squire,  the  lords  Hinz 
and  Kunz,  who  possessed  estates  in  the  neighborhood  of 
Tronka  Castle,  which  had  been  burned  dowm,  wrote  to  their 
stewards  and  to  the  farmers  living  there  for  information 
about  the  black  horses  which  had  been  lost  on  that  unfor- 
tunate day  and  not  heard  of  since.  But  on  account  of  the 
complete  destruction  of  the  castle  and  the  massacre  of  most 
of  the  inhabitants,  all  that  they  could  learn  was  that  a 
servant,  driven  by  blows  dealt  with  the  flat  of  the  incen- 
diary's sword,  had  rescued  them  from  the  burning  shed  in 
which  they  were  standing,  but  that  afterward,  to  the  ques- 
tion where  he  should  take  them  and  what  he  should  do  with 
them,  he  had  been  answered  by  a  kick  from  the  savage 
madman.  The  Squire's  gouty  old  housekeeper,  who  had 
fled  to  Meissen,  assured  the  latter,  in  reply  to  his  w^ritten 
inquirj^,  that  on  the  morning  after  that  horrible  night  the 
servant  had  gone  off  with  the  horses  toward  the  Branden- 
burg border,  but  all  inquiries  which  were  made  there  proved 
vain,  and  some  error  seemed  to  lie  at  the  bottom  of  this 
information,"  as  the  Squire  had  no  servant  whose  home  was 


MICHAEL  KOHLHAAS  363 

in  Brandenburg  or  even  on  the  road  thither.  Some  men 
from  Dresden,  who  had  been  in  Wilsdruf  a  few  days  after 
the  burning  of  Tronka  Castle,  declared  that,  at  the  time 
named,  a  groom  had  arrived  in  that  place,  leading  two 
horses  by  the  halter,  and,  as  the  animals  were  very  sick 
and  could  go  no  further,  he  had  left  them  in  the  cow-stable 
of  a  shepherd  who  had  offered  to  restore  them  to  good  con- 
dition. For  a  variety  of  reasons  it  seemed  very  probable 
that  these  were  the  black  horses  for  which  search  was  being 
made,  but  persons  coming  from  Wilsdruf  declared  that  the 
shepherd  had  already  traded  them  off  again,  no  one  knew 
to  whom;  and  a  third  rumor,  the  originator  of  which  could 
not  be  discovered,  even  asserted  that  the  two  horses  had 
in  the  mean  time  passed  peacefully  away  and  been  buried 
in  the  carrion  pit  at  Wilsdruf. 

This  turn  of  affairs,  as  can  be  easily  understood,  was  the 
most  pleasing  to  the  lords  Hinz  and  Kunz,  as  they  were 
thus  relieved  of  the  necessity  of  fattening  the  blacks  in 
their  stables,  the  Squire,  their  cousin,  no  longer  having  any 
stables  of  his  own.  They  wished,  however,  for  the  sake  of 
absolute  security,  to  verify  this  circumstance.  Sir  Wenzel 
Tronka,  therefore,  in  his  capacity  as  hereditary  feudal  lord 
with  the  right  of  judicature,  addressed  a  letter  to  the  magis- 
trates at  Wilsdruf,  in  which,  after  a  minute  description  of 
the  black  horses,  which,  as  he  said,  had  been  intrusted  to 
his  care  and  lost  through  an  accident,  he  begged  them  to 
be  so  obliging  as  to  ascertain  their  present  whereabouts, 
and  to  urge  and  admonish  the  owner,  whoever  he  might  be, 
to  deliver  them  at  the  stables  of  the  Chamberlain,  Sir  Kunz, 
in  Dresden,  and  be  generously  reimbursed  for  all  costs. 
Accordingly,  a  few  days  later,  the  man  to  whom  the  shep- 
herd in  Wilsdruf  had  sold  them  did  actually  appear  with 
the  horses,  thin  and  staggering,  tied  to  the  tailboard  of  his 
cart,  and  led  them  to  the  market-place  in  Dresden.  As  the 
bad  luck  of  Sir  Wenzel  and  still  more  of  honest  Kohlhaas 
would  have  it,  however,  the  man  happened  to  be  the  knacker 
from  Dobeln. 


364  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

As  soon  as  Sir  Wenzel,  in  the  presence  of  the  Chamber- 
lain, his  cousin,  learned  from  an  indefinite  rumor  that  a 
man  had  arrived  in  the  city  with  two  black  horses  which 
had  escaped  from  the  burning  of  Tronka  Castle,  both  gen- 
tlemen, accompanied  by  a  few  servants  hurriedly  collected 
in  the  house,  went  to  the  palace  square  where  the  man  had 
stopped,  intending,  if  the  two  animals  proved  to  be  those 
belonging  to  Kohlhaas,  to  make  good  the  expenses  the  man 
had  incurred  and  take  the  horses  home  with  them.  But 
how  disconcerted  were  the  knights  to  see  a  momentarily 
increasing  crowd  of  people,  who  had  been  attracted  by  the 
spectacle,  already  standing  around  the  two-wheeled  cart 
to  which  the  horses  were  fastened!  Amid  uninterrupted 
laughter  they  were  calling  to  one  another  that  the  horses, 
on  account  of  which  the  whole  state  was  tottering,  already 
belonged  to  the  knacker !  The  Squire  who  had  gone  around 
the  cart  and  gazed  at  the  miserable  animals,  which  seemed 
every  moment  about  to  expire,  said  in  an  embarrassed  way 
that  those  were  not  the  horses  which  he  had  taken  from 
Kohlhaas;  but  Sir  Kunz,  the  Chamberlain,  casting  at  him 
a  look  of  speechless  rage  which,  had  it  been  of  iron,  would 
have  dashed  him  to  pieces,  and  throwing  back  his  cloak 
to  disclose  his  orders  and  chain,  stepped  up  to  the  knacker 
and  asked  if  those  were  the  black  horses  which  the  shep- 
herd at  Wilsdruf  had  gained  possession  of,  and  for  which 
Squire  Wenzel  Tronka,  to  whom  they  belonged,  had  made 
requisition  through  the  magistrate  of  that  place. 

The  knacker  who,  with  a  pail  of  water  in  his  hand,  was 
busy  watering  a  fat,  sturdy  horse  that  was  drawing  his 
cart  asked — "  The  blacks'?  "  Then  he  put  down  the  pail, 
took  the  bit  out  of  the  horse's  mouth,  and  explained  that 
the  black  horses  which  were  tied  to  the  tailboard  of  the 
cart  had  been  sold  to  him  by  the  swineherd  in  Hainichen; 
where  the  latter  had  obtained  them  and  whether  they  came 
from  the  shepherd  at  Wilsdruf  —  that  he  did  not  know. 
"  He  had  been  told,"  he  continued,  taking  up  the  pail  again 
and  propping  it  between  the  pole  of  the  cart  and  his  knee  — 


MICHAEL  KOHLHAAS  365 

**  lie  had  been  told  by  the  messenger  of  the  court  at  Wils- 
druf  to  take  the  horses  to  the  house  of  the  Tronkas  in  Dres- 
den, but  the  Squire  to  whom  he  had  been  directed  was 
named  Kunz."  With  these  words  he  turned  around  with 
the  rest  of  the  water  which  the  horse  had  left  in  the  pail, 
and  emptied  it  out  on  the  pavement.  The  Chamberlain, 
who  was  beset  by  the  stares  of  the  laughing,  jeering  crowd 
and  could  not  induce  the  fellow,  who  was  attending  to  his 
business  with  phlegmatic  zeal,  to  look  at  him,  said  that  he 
was  the  Chamberlain  Kunz  Tronka.  The  black  horses, 
however,  which  he  was  to  get  possession  of,  had  to  be  those 
belonging  to  the  Squire,  his  cousin;  they  must  have  been 
given  to  the  shepherd  at  Wilsdruf  by  a  stable-man  who  had 
run  away  from  Tronka  Castle  at  the  time  of  the  fire ;  more- 
over, they  must  be  the  two  horses  that  originally  had 
belonged  to  the  horse-dealer  Kohlhaas.  He  asked  the  fel- 
low, who  was  standing  there  with  his  legs  apart,  pulling 
up  his  trousers,  whether  he  did  not  know  something  about 
all  this.  Had  not  the  swineherd  of  Hainichen,  he  went  on, 
perhaps  purchased  these  horses  from  the  shepherd  at  Wils- 
druf, or  from  a  third  person,  who  in  turn  had  bought  them 
from  the  latter?  —  for  everything  depended  on  this  cir- 
cumstance. 

The  knacker  replied  that  he  had  been  ordered  to  go  with 
the  black  horses  to  Dresden  and  was  to  receive  the  money 
for  them  in  the  house  of  the  Tronkas.  He  did  not  under- 
stand what  the  Squire  was  talking  about,  and  whether  it 
was  Peter  or  Paul,  or  the  shepherd  in  Wilsdruf,  who  had 
owned  them  before  the  swineherd  in  Hainichen,  was  all  one 
to  him  so  long  as  they  had  not  been  stolen ;  and  with  this 
he  went  off,  with  his  whip  across  his  broad  back,  to  a  public 
house  which  stood  in  the  square,  with  the  intention  of  get- 
ting some  breakfast,  as  he  was  very  hungry. 

The  Chamberlain,  who  for  the  life  of  him  didn't  know 
what  he  should  do  with  the  horses  which  the  smneherd  of 
Hainichen  had  sold  to  the  knacker  of  Dobeln,  unless  they 
were  those  on  which  the  devil  was  riding  through  Saxony, 


366  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

asked  the  Squire  to  say  something;  but  when  the  latter  with 
white,  trembling  lips  replied  that  it  would  be  advisable  to 
buy  the  black  horses  whether  they  belonged  to  Kohlhaas 
or  not,  the  Chamberlain,  cursing  the  father  and  mother 
who  had  given  birth  to  the  Squire,  stepped  aside  out  of  the 
crowd  and  threw  back  his  cloak,  absolutely  at  a  loss  to 
know  what  he  should  do  or  leave  undone.  Defiantly  deter- 
mined not  to  leave  the  square  just  because  the  rabble  were 
staring  at  him  derisively  and  with  their  handkerchiefs 
pressed  tight  over  their  mouths  seemed  to  be  waiting  only 
for  him  to  depart  before  bursting  out  into  laughter,  he 
called  to  Baron  Wenk,  an  acquaintance  who  happened  to 
be  riding  by,  and  begged  him  to  stop  at  the  house  of  the 
Lord  High  Chancellor,  Count  Wrede,  and  through  the  lat- 
ter's  instrumentality  to  have  Kohlhaas  brought  there  to 
look  at  the  black  horses. 

When  the  Baron,  intent  upon  this  errand,  entered  the 
chamber  of  the  Lord  High  Chancellor,  it  so  happened  that 
Kohlhaas  was  just  then  present,  having  been  summoned  by 
a  messenger  of  the  court  to  give  certain  explanations  of 
which  they  stood  in  need  concerning  the  deposit  in  Liitzen. 
While  the  Chancellor,  with  an  annoyed  look,  rose  from  his 
chair  and  asked  the  horse-dealer,  whose  person  was  un- 
known to  the  Baron,  to  step  to  one  side  with  his  papers,  the 
latter  informed  him  of  the  dilemma  in  which  the  lords 
Tronka  found  themselves.  He  explained  that  the  knacker 
from  Dobeln,  acting  on  a  defective  requisition  from  the 
court  at  Wilsdruf,  had  appeared  with  horses  whose  con- 
dition was  so  frightful  that  Squire  Wenzel  could  not  help 
hesitating  to  pronounce  them  the  ones  belonging  to  Kohl- 
haas. In  case  they  were  to  be  taken  from  the  knacker  not- 
withstanding, and  an  attempt  made  to  restore  them  to  good 
condition  in  the  stables  of  the  knights,  an  ocular  inspection 
by  Kohlhaas  would  first  be  necessary  in  order  to  establish 
the  aforesaid  circumstance  beyond  doubt.  '*  Will  you 
therefore  have  the  goodness,"  he  concluded,  *'  to  have  a 
guard  fetch  the  horse-dealer  from  his  house  and  conduct 


MICHAEL  KOHLHAAS  367 

him  to  the  market-place  where  the  horses  are  standing?  " 
The  Lord  High  Chancellor,  taking  his  glasses  from  his 
nose,  said  that  the  Baron  was  laboring  under  a  double  delu- 
sion—  first,  in  thinking  that  the  fact  in  question  could  be 
ascertained  only  by  means  of  an  ocular  inspection  by  Kohl- 
haas,  and  then,  in  imagining  that  he,  the  Chancellor,  pos- 
sessed the  authority  to  have  Kohlhaas  taken  by  a  guard 
wherever  the  Squire  happened  to  wish.  With  this  he  pre- 
sented to  him  Kohlhaas  who  was  standing  behind  him,  and 
sitting  dovra.  and  putting  on  his  glasses  again,  begged  him 
to  apply  to  the  horse-dealer  himself  in  the  matter. 

Kohlhaas,  whose  expression  gave  no  hint  of  w^hat  was 
going  on  in  his  mind,  said  that  he  was  ready  to  follow  the 
Baron  to  the  market-place  and  inspect  the  black  horses 
which  the  knacker  had  brought  to  the  city.  As  the  discon- 
certed Baron  faced  around  toward  him,  Kohlhaas  stepped 
up  to  the  table  of  the  Chancellor,  and,  after  taking  time  to 
explain  to  him,  with  the  help  of  the  papers  in  his  wallet, 
several  matters  concerning  the  deposit  in  Liitzen,  took 
his  leave.  The  Baron,  who  had  walked  over  to  the  window, 
his  face  suffused  with  a  deep  blush,  likewise  made  his 
adieux,  and  both,  escorted  by  the  three  foot-soldiers 
assigned  by  the  Prince  of  Meissen,  took  their  way  to  the 
Palace  square  attended  by  a  great  crowd  of  people. 

In  the  mean  time  the  Chamberlain,  Sir  Kunz,  in  spite  of 
the  protests  of  several  friends  who  had  joined  him,  had 
stood  his  ground  among  the  people,  opposite  the  knacker  of 
Dobeln.  As  soon  as  the  Baron  and  the  horse-dealer 
appeared  he  went  up  to  the  latter  and,  holding  his  sword 
proudly  and  ostentatiously  under  his  arm,  asked  if  the 
horses  standing  behind  the  wagon  were  his. 

The  horse-dealer,  turning  modestly  toward  the  gentleman 
who  had  asked  him  the  question  and  who  was  unknowTi  to 
him,  touched  liis  hat;  then,  without  answering,  he  walked 
tow^ard  the  knacker's  cart,  surrounded  by  all  the  knights. 
The  animals  were  standing  there  on  unsteady  legs,  with 
heads  bowed  down  to  the  ground,  making  no  attempt  to  eat 


368  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

the  hay  which  the  knacker  had  placed  before  them.  Kohl- 
haas  stopped  a  dozen  feet  away,  and  after  a  hasty  glance 
turned  back  again  to  the  Chamberlain,  saying,  '^  My  lord, 
the  knacker  is  quite  right;  the  horses  which  are  fastened 
to  his  cart  belong  to  me!  "  As  he  spoke  he  looked  around 
at  the  whole  circle  of  knights,  touched  his  hat  once  more, 
and  left  the  square,  accompanied  by  his  guard. 

At  these  words  the  Chamberlain,  with  a  hasty  step  that 
made  the  plume  of  his  helmet  tremble,  strode  up  to  the 
knacker  and  threw  him  a  purse  full  of  money.  And  while 
the  latter,  holding  the  purse  in  his  hand,  combed  the  hair 
back  from  his  forehead  with  a  leaden  comb  and  stared  at 
the  money,  Sir  Kunz  ordered  a  groom  to  untie  the  horses 
and  lead  them  home.  The  groom,  at  the  summons  of  his 
master,  left  a  group  of  his  friends  and  relatives  among  the 
crowd;  his  face  flushed  slightly,  but  he  did,  nevertheless, 
go  up  to  the  horses,  stepping  over  a  big  puddle  that  had 
formed  at  their  feet.  No  sooner,  however,  had  he  taken 
hold  of  the  halter  to  untie  them,  than  Master  Himboldt,  his 
cousin,  seized  him  by  the  arm,  and  with  the  words,  * '  You 
shan't  touch  the  knacker's  jades!  "  hurled  him  away  from 
the  cart.  Then,  stepping  back  unsteadily  over  the  puddle, 
the  Master  turned  toward  the  Chamberlain,  who  was  stand- 
ing there,  speechless  with  astonishment  at  this  incident, 
and  added  that  he  must  get  a  knacker's  man  to  do  him  such 
a  service  as  that.  The  Chamberlain,  foaming  with  rage, 
stared  at  Master  Himboldt  for  a  moment,  then  turned 
about  and,  over  the  heads  of  the  knights  who  surrounded 
him,  called  for  the  guard.  When,  in  obedience  to  the  orders 
of  Baron  Wenk,  an  officer  with  some  of  the  Elector's  body- 
guards had  arrived  from  the  palace,  Sir  Kunz  gave  him  a 
short  account  of  the  shameful  way  in  which  the  burghers 
of  the  city  permitted  themselves  to  instigate  revolt,  and 
called  upon  the  officer  to  place  the  ringleader,  Master 
Himboldt,  under  arrest.  Seizing  the  Master  by  the  chest, 
the  Chamberlain  accused  him  of  having  maltreated  and 
thrust  away  from  the  cart  the  groom  who,  at  his  orders,  was 


MICHAEL  KOHLHAAS  369 

unhitching  the  black  horses.  The  Master,  freeing  himself 
from  the  Chamberlain's  grasp  with  a  skilful  twist  which 
forced  the  latter  to  step  back,  cried,  **  My  lord,  showing  a 
boy  of  twenty  what  he  ought  to  do  is  not  instigating  him  to 
revolt !  Ask  him  whether,  contrary  to  all  that  is  customary 
and  decent,  he  cares  to  have  anything  to  do  with  those 
horses  that  are  tied  to  the  cart.  If  he  wants  to  do  it  after 
what  I  have  said,  well  and  good.  For  all  I  care,  he  may 
flay  and  skin  them  now. ' ' 

At  these  words  the  Chamberlain  turned  round  to  the 
groom  and  asked  him  if  he  had  any  scruples  about  ful- 
filling his  command  to  untie  the  horses  which  belonged  to 
Kohlhaas  and  lead  them  home.  When  the  groom,  stepping 
back  among  the  citizens,  answered  timidly  that  the  horses 
must  be  made  honorable  once  more  before  that  could  be 
expected  of  him,  the  Chamberlain  followed  him,  tore  from 
the  young  man's  head  the  hat  which  was  decorated  with 
the  badge  of  his  house,  and,  after  trampling  it  under  his 
feet,  drew  his  sword  and  with  furious  blows  drove  the 
groom  instantly  from  the  square  and  from  his  service. 
Master  Himboldt  cried, ' '  Down  with  the  bloodthirsty  mad- 
man, friends ! ' '  And  while  the  citizens,  outraged  at  this 
scene,  crowded  together  and  forced  back  the  guard,  he  came 
up  behind  the  Chamberlain  and  threw  him  down,  tore  off 
his  cloak,  collar,  and  helmet,  wrenched  the  sword  from  his 
hand,  and  dashed  it  with  a  furious  fling  far  away  across  the 
square. 

In  vain  did  the  Squire  Wenzel,  as  he  worked  his  way  out 
of  the  crowd,  call  to  the  knights  to  go  to  his  cousin's  aid; 
even  before  they  had  started  to  rescue  him,  they  had  been 
so  scattered  by  the  rush  of  the  mob  that  the  Chamberlain, 
who  in  falling  had  injured  his  head,  was  exposed  to  the  full 
wrath  of  the  crowd.  The  only  thing  that  saved  him  was 
the  appearance  of  a  troop  of  mounted  soldiers  who  chanced 
to  be  crossing  the  square,  and  whom  the  officer  of  the 
Elector's  body-guards  called  to  his  assistance.  The  officer, 
after  dispersing  the  crowd,  seized  the  furious  Master  Him- 

VoL.  rV  — 24 


370  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

boldt,  and,  while  some  of  the  troopers  bore  him  off  to  prison, 
two  friends  picked  up  the  unfortunate  Chamberlain,  who 
was  covered  with  blood,  and  carried  him  home. 

Such  was  the  unfortmiate  outcome  of  the  well-meant  and 
honest  attempt  to  procure  the  horse-dealer  satisfaction  for 
the  injustice  that  had  been  committed  against  him.  The 
knacker  of  Dobeln,  whose  business  was  concluded,  and  who 
did  not  wish  to  delay  any  longer,  tied  the  horses  to  a  lamp- 
post, since  the  crowd  was  beginning  to  scatter,  and  there 
they  remained  the  whole  day  through  without  any  one's 
bothering  about  them,  an  object  of  mockerj^  for  the  street- 
arabs  and  loafers.  Finally,  since  they  lacked  any  sort  of 
care  and  attention,  the  police  were  obliged  to  take  them  in 
hand,  and,  toward  evening,  the  knacker  of  Dresden  was 
called  to  carry  them  off  to  the  knacker's  house  outside  the 
city  to  await  further  instructions. 

This  incident,  as  little  as  the  horse-dealer  was  in  reality 
to  blame  for  it,  nevertheless  awakened  throughout  the 
country,  even  among  the  more  moderate  and  better  class  of 
people,  a  sentiment  extremely  dangerous  to  the  success  of 
his  lawsuit.  The  relation  of  this  man  to  the  state  was  felt 
to  be  quite  intolerable  and,  in  private  houses  as  well  as  in 
public  places,  the  opinion  gained  ground  that  it  would  be 
better  to  commit  an  open  injustice  against  him  and  quash 
the  whole  lawsuit  anew,  rather  than,  for  the  mere  sake  of 
satisfying  his  mad  obstinacy,  to  accord  him  in  so  trivial  a 
matter  justice  which  he  had  wrung  from  them  by  deeds  of 
violence. 

To  complete  the  ruin  of  poor  Kohlhaas,  it  was  the  Lord 
High  Chancellor  himself,  animated  by  too  great  probity, 
and  a  consequent  hatred  of  the  Tronka  family,  who  helped 
strengthen  and  spread  this  sentiment.  It  was  highly 
improbable  that  the  horses,  which  were  now  being  cared  for 
by  the  knacker  of  Dresden,  would  ever  be  restored  to  the 
condition  they  were  in  when  they  left  the  stables  at  Kohl- 
haasenbriick.  However,  granted  that  this  might  be  pos- 
sible by  skilful  and  constant  care,  nevertheless  the  disgrace 


MICHAEL  KOHLHAAS  371 

which,  as  a  result  of  the  existing  circumstances,  had  fallen 
upon  the  Squire 's  family  was  so  great  that,  in  consideration 
of  the  political  importance  which  the  house  possessed  — 
being,  as  it  was,  one  of  the  oldest  and  noblest  families  in  the 
land  —  nothing  seemed  more  just  and  expedient  than  to 
arrange  a  money  indemnity  for  the  horses.  In  spite  of  this, 
a  few  days  later,  when  the  President,  Count  Kallheim,  in  the 
name  of  the  Chamberlain,  who  was  deterred  by  his  sickness, 
sent  a  letter  to  the  Chancellor  containing  this  proposition, 
the  latter  did  indeed  send  a  communication  to  Kohlhaas  in 
which  he  admonished  him  not  to  decline  such  a  proposition 
should  it  be  made  to  him;  but  in  a  short  and  rather  curt 
answer  to  the  President  himself  the  Chancellor  begged  him 
not  to  bother  him  with  private  commissions  in  this  matter 
and  advised  the  Chamberlain  to  apply  to  the  horse-dealer 
himself,  whom  he  described  as  a  very  just  and  modest  man. 
The  horse-dealer,  whose  will  was,  in  fact,  broken  by  the  inci- 
dent which  had  occurred  in  the  market-place,  was,  in  con- 
formity with  the  advice  of  the  Lord  Chancellor,  only 
waiting  for  an  overture  on  the  part  of  the  Squire  or  his 
relatives  in  order  to  meet  them  half-way  with  perfect  will- 
ingness and  forgiveness  for  all  that  had  happened ;  but  to 
make  this  overture  entailed  too  great  a  sacrifice  of  dignity 
on  the  part  of  the  proud  knights.  Very  much  incensed  by 
the  answer  they  had  received  from  the  Lord  Chancellor, 
they  showed  the  same  to  the  Elector,  who  on  the  morning 
of  the  following  day  had  visited  the  Chamberlain  in  his 
room  where  he  was  confined  to  his  bed  with  his  wounds. 

In  a  voice  rendered  weak  and  pathetic  by  his  condition, 
the  Chamberlain  asked  the  Elector  whether,  after  risking 
his  life  to  settle  this  affair  according  to  his  sovereign's 
wishes,  he  must  also  expose  his  honor  to  the  censure  of  the 
world  and  to  appear  with  a  request  for  relenting  and  com- 
promise before  a  man  who  had  brought  every  imaginable 
shame  and  disgrace  on  him  and  his  family. 

The  Elector,  after  having  read  the  letter,  asked  Count 
Kallheim  in  an  embarrassed  way  whether,  without  further 


372  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

communication  with  Kohlhaas,  the  Tribunal  were  not  au- 
thorized to  base  its  decision  on  the  fact  that  the  horses 
could  not  be  restored  to  their  original  condition,  and  in 
conformity  therewith  to  draw  up  the  judgment  just  as 
if  the  horses  were  dead,  on  the  sole  basis  of  a  money 
indemnity. 

The  Count  answered,  *'  Most  gracious  sovereign,  they  are 
dead;  they  are  dead  in  the  sight  of  the  law  because  they 
have  no  value,  and  they  will  be  so  physically  before  they 
can  be  brought  from  the  knacker's  house  to  the  knights' 
stables."  To  this  the  Elector,  putting  the  letter  in  his 
pocket,  replied  that  he  would  himself  speak  to  the  Lord 
Chancellor  about  it.  He  spoke  soothingly  to  the  Chamber- 
lain, who  raised  himself  on  his  elbow  and  seized  his  hand 
in  gratitude,  and,  after  lingering  a  moment  to  urge  him  to 
take  care  of  his  health,  rose  with  a  very  gracious  air  and 
left  the  room. 

Thus  stood  affairs  in  Dresden,  when  from  the  direction 
of  Liitzen  there  gathered  over  poor  Kohlhaas  another 
thunder-storm,  even  more  serious,  whose  lightning-flash  the 
crafty  knights  were  clever  enough  to  draw  down  upon  the 
horse-dealer's  unlucky  head.  It  so  happened  that  one  of 
the  band  of  men  that  Kohlhaas  had  collected  and  turned  off 
again  after  the  appearance  of  the  electoral  amnesty, 
Johannes  Nagelschmidt  by  name,  had  found  it  expedient, 
some  weeks  later,  to  muster  again  on  the  Bohemian  frontier 
a  part  of  this  rabble  which  was  ready  to  take  part  in  any 
infamy,  and  to  continue  on  his  own  account  the  profession 
on  the  track  of  which  Kohlhaas  had  put  him.  This  good- 
for-nothing  fellow  called  himself  a  vicegerent  of  Kohlhaas, 
partly  to  inspire  with  fear  the  officers  of  the  law  who  were 
after  him,  and  partly,  by  the  use  of  familiar  methods,  to 
beguile  the  country  people  into  participating  in  his  rascali- 
ties. With  a  cleverness  which  he  had  learned  from  his 
master,  he  had  it  noised  abroad  that  the  amnesty  had  not 
been  kept  in  the  case  of  several  men  who  had  quietly  re- 
turned to  their  homes  —  indeed  that  Kohlhaas  himself  had, 


MICHAEL  KOHLHAAS  373 

with  a  faithlessness  which  cried  aloud  to  heaven,  been 
arrested  on  his  arrival  in  Dresden  and  placed  under  a 
guard.  He  carried  it  so  far  that,  in  manifestos  which  were 
very  similar  to  those  of  Kohlhaas,  his  incendiary  band 
appeared  as  an  army  raised  solely  for  the  glory  of  God 
and  meant  to  watch  over  the  observance  of  the  amnesty 
promised  by  the  Elector.  All  this,  as  we  have  already  said, 
was  done  by  no  means  for  the  glory  of  God  nor  out  of 
attachment  for  Kohlhaas,  whose  fate  was  a  matter  of 
absolute  indifference  to  the  outlaws,  but  in  order  to  enable 
them,  under  cover  of  such  dissimulation,  to  bum  and 
plunder  with  the  greater  ease  and  impunity. 

When  the  first  news  of  this  reached  Dresden  the  knights 
could  not  conceal  their  joy  over  the  occurrence,  which  lent 
an  entirely  different  aspect  to  the  whole  matter.  "With  wise 
and  displeased  allusions  they  recalled  the  mistake  which 
had  been  made  when,  in  spite  of  their  urgent  and  repeated 
warnings,  an  amnesty  had  been  granted  Kohlhaas,  as  if 
those  who  had  been  in  favor  of  it  had  had  the  deliberate 
intention  of  giving  to  miscreants  of  all  kinds  the  signal  to 
follow  in  his  footsteps.  Not  content  with  crediting  Nagel- 
schmidt's  pretext  that  he  had  taken  up  arms  merely  to 
lend  support  and  security  to  his  oppressed  master,  they 
even  expressed  the  decided  opinion  that  his  whole  course 
was  nothing  but  an  enterprise  contrived  by  Kohlhaas  in 
order  to  frighten  the  government,  and  to  hasten  and  insure 
the  rendering  of  a  verdict,  which,  point  for  point,  should 
satisfy  his  mad  obstinacy.  Indeed  the  Cup-bearer,  Sir 
Hinz,  went  so  far  as  to  declare  to  some  hunting-pages  and 
courtiers  who  had  gathered  round  him  after  dinner  in  the 
Elector's  antechamber  that  the  breaking  up  of  the  maraud- 
ing band  in  Liitzen  had  been  but  a  cursed  pretense.  He  was 
very  merry  over  the  Lord  High  Chancellor's  alleged  love 
of  justice;  by  cleverly  connecting  various  circumstances 
he  proved  that  the  band  was  still  extant  in  the  forests  of  the 
Electorate  and  was  only  waiting  for  a  signal  from  the 
horse-dealer  to  break  out  anew  with  fire  and  sword. 


374  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

Prince  Christiem  of  Meissen,  very  much  displeased  at 
this  turn  in  affairs,  which  threatened  to  fleck  his  sover- 
eign's honor  in  the  most  painful  manner,  went  immediately 
to  the  palace  to  confer  with  the  Elector.  He  saw  quite 
clearly  that  it  would  be  to  the  interest  of  the  knights  to 
ruin  Kohlhaas,  if  possible,  on  the  ground  of  new  crimes, 
and  he  begged  the  Elector  to  give  him  permission  to  have 
an  immediate  judicial  examination  of  the  horse-dealer. 
Kohlhaas,  somewhat  astonished  at  being  conducted  to  the 
Government  Office  by  a  constable,  appeared  with  his  two 
little  boys,  Henry  and  Leopold,  in  his  arms ;  for  Sternbald, 
his  servant,  had  arrived  the  day  before  with  his  five  chil- 
dren from  Mecklenburg,  where  they  had  been  staying. 
When  Kohlhaas  had  started  to  leave  for  the  Government 
Office  the  two  boys  had  burst  into  childish  tears,  begging 
him  to  take  them  along,  and  various  considerations  too 
intricate  to  unravel  made  him  decide  to  pick  them  up  and 
carry  them  with  him  to  the  hearing.  Kohlhaas  placed  the 
children  beside  him,  and  the  Prince,  after  looking  benevo- 
lently at  them  and  asking,  with  friendly  interest,  their 
names  and  ages,  went  on  to  inform  Kohlhaas  what  liberties 
Nagelschmidt,  his  former  follower,  was  taking,  in  the  val- 
leys of  the  Ore  Mountains,  and  handing  him  the  latter 's 
so-called  mandates  he  told  him  to  produce  whatever  he  had 
to  offer  for  his  vindication.  Although  the  horse-dealer  was 
deeply  alarmed  by  these  shameful  and  traitorous  papers, 
he  nevertheless  had  little  difficulty  in  explaining  satisfac- 
torily to  so  upright  a  man  as  the  Prince  the  groundlessness 
of  the  accusations  brought  against  him  on  this  score.  Be- 
sides the  fact  that,  so  far  as  he  could  observe,  he  did  not, 
as  the  matter  now  stood,  need  any  help  as  yet  from  a  third 
person  in  bringing  about  the  decision  of  his  lawsuit,  which 
was  proceeding  most  favorably,  some  papers  which  he  had 
with  him  and  showed  to  the  Prince  made  it  appear  highly 
improbable  that  Nagelschmidt  should  be  inclined  to  render 
him  help  of  that  sort,  for,  shortly  before  the  dispersion  of 
the  band  in  Liitzen,  he  had  been  on  the  point  of  having  the 


MICHAEL  KOHLHAAS  375 

fellow  hanged  for  a  rape  committed  in  the  open  country, 
and  other  rascalities.  Only  the  appearance  of  the  electoral 
amnesty  had  saved  Nagelschmidt,  as  it  had  severed  all 
relations  between  them,  and  on  the  next  day  they  had 
parted  as  mortal  enemies. 

Kohlhaas,  with  the  Prince's  approval  of  the  idea,  sat 
down  and  wrote  a  letter  to  Nagelschmidt  in  which  he  de- 
clared that  the  latter 's  pretense  of  having  taken  the  field 
in  order  to  maintain  the  amnesty  which  had  been  violated 
with  regard  to  him  and  his  band,  was  a  disgraceful  and 
vicious  fabrication.  He  told  him  that,  on  his  arrival  in 
Dresden,  he  had  neither  been  imprisoned  nor  handed  over 
to  a  guard,  also  that  his  lawsuit  was  progressing  exactly 
as  he  wished,  and,  as  a  warning  for  the  rabble  who  had 
gathered  around  Nagelschmidt,  he  gave  him  over  to  the 
full  vengeance  of  the  law  for  the  outrages  which  he  had 
committed  in  the  Ore  Mountains  after  the  publication  of 
the  amnesty.  Some  portions  of  the  criminal  prosecution 
which  the  horse-dealer  had  instituted  against  him  in  the 
castle  at  Liitzen  on  account  of  the  above-mentioned  dis- 
graceful acts,  were  also  appended  to  the  letter  to  enlighten 
the  people  concerning  the  good-for-nothing  fellow,  who 
even  at  that  time  had  been  destined  for  the  gallows,  and, 
as  already  stated,  had  only  been  saved  by  the  edict  issued 
by  the  Elector.  In  consequence  of  this  letter  the  Prince 
appeased  Kohlhaas'  displeasure  at  the  suspicion  which,  of 
necessity,  they  had  been  obliged  to  express  in  this  hearing ; 
he  went  on  to  declare  that,  while  he  remained  in  Dresden, 
the  amnesty  granted  him  should  not  be  violated  in  any  way; 
then,  after  presenting  to  the  boys  some  fruit  that  was  on  his 
table,  he  shook  hands  with  them  once  more,  saluted  Kohl- 
haas, and  dismissed  him. 

The  Lord  High  Chancellor,  who  nevertheless  recognized 
the  danger  that  was  threatening  the  horse-dealer,  did  his 
utmost  to  bring  his  lawsuit  to  an  end  before  it  should  be 
complicated  and  confused  by  new  developments ;  this,  how- 
ever, was  exactly  what  the  diplomatic  knights  desired  and 


376  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

aimed  at.  Instead  of  silently  acknowledging  their  guilt,  as 
at  first,  and  obtaining  merely  a  less  severe  sentence,  they 
now  began  with  pettifogging  and  crafty  subterfuges  to  deny 
this  guilt  itself  entirely.  Sometimes  they  pretended  that 
the  black  horses  belonging  to  Kohlhaas  had  been  detained 
at  Tronka  Castle  on  the  arbitrary  authority  of  the  castel- 
lan and  the  steward,  and  that  the  Squire  had  kno^vn  little, 
if  anytliing,  of  their  actions.  At  other  times  they  declared 
that,  even  on  their  arrival  at  the  castle,  the  animals  had 
been  suffering  from  a  violent  and  dangerous  cough,  and, 
in  confirmation  of  the  fact,  they  referred  to  witnesses  whom 
they  pledged  themselves  to  produce.  Forced  to  withdraw 
these  arguments  after  many  long-drawn-out  investigations 
and  explanations,  they  even  cited  an  electoral  edict  of 
twelve  years  before,  in  which  the  importation  of  horses 
from  Brandenburg  into  Saxony  had  actually  been  for- 
bidden, on  account  of  a  plague  among  the  cattle.  This 
circumstance,  according  to  them,  made  it  as  clear  as  day 
that  the  Squire  not  only  had  the  authority,  but  also  was 
under  obligation,  to  hold  up  the  horses  that  Kohlhaas  had 
brought  across  the  border.  Kohlhaas,  meanwhile,  had 
bought  back  his  farm  at  Kohlhaasenbriick  from  the  honest 
bailiff,  in  return  for  a  small  compensation  for  the  loss  sus- 
tained. He  wished,  apparently  in  connection  with  the  legal 
settlement  of  this  business,  to  leave  Dresden  for  some  days 
and  return  to  his  home,  in  which  determination,  however, 
the  above-mentioned  matter  of  business,  imperative  as  it 
may  actually  have  been  on  account  of  sowing  the  winter 
crops,  undoubtedly  played  less  part  than  the  intention  of 
testing  his  position  under  such  unusual  and  critical  cir- 
cumstances. He  may  perhaps  also  have  been  influenced  by 
reasons  of  still  another  kind  which  we  will  leave  to  every 
one  who  is  acquainted  with  his  own  heart  to  divine. 

In  pursuance  of  this  resolve  he  betook  himself  to  the 
Lord  Chancellor,  leaving  behind  the  guard  which  had  been 
assigned  to  him.  He  carried  with  him  the  letters  from  the 
bailiff,  and  explained  that  if,  as  seemed  to  be  the  case,  he 


MICHAEL  KOHLHAAS  377 

were  not  urgently  needed  in  court,  he  would  like  to  leave 
the  city  and  go  to  Brandenburg  for  a  week  or  ten  days, 
within  which  time  he  promised  to  be  back  again.  The  Lord 
High  Chancellor,  looking  down  with  a  displeased  and 
dubious  expression,  replied  that  he  must  acknowledge  that 
Kohlhaas '  presence  was  more  necessary  just  then  than  ever, 
as  the  court,  on  account  of  the  prevaricating  and  tricky 
tactics  of  the  opposition,  required  his  statements  and 
explanations  at  a  thousand  points  that  could  not  be  fore- 
seen. However,  when  Kohlhaas  referred  him  to  his  lawyer, 
who  was  well  informed  concerning  the  lawsuit,  and  with 
modest  importunity  persisted  in  his  request,  promising  to 
confine  his  absence  to  a  week,  the  Lord  Chancellor,  after  a 
pause,  said  briefly,  as  he  dismissed  him,  that  he  hoped  that 
Kohlhaas  would  apply  to  Prince  Christiern  of  Meissen  for 
passports. 

Kohlhaas,  who  could  read  the  Lord  Chancellor's  face 
perfectly,  was  only  strengthened  in  his  determination.  He 
sat  down  immediately  and,  without  giving  any  reason, 
asked  the  Prince  of  Meissen,  as  head  of  the  Government 
Office,  to  furnish  him  passports  for  a  week's  journey  to 
Kohlhaasenbriick  and  back.  In  reply  to  this  letter  he 
received  a  cabinet  order  signed  by  the  Governor  of  the 
Palace,  Baron  Siegfried  Wenk,  to  the  effect  that  his  re- 
quest for  passports  to  Kohlhaasenbriick  would  be  laid 
before  his  serene  highness  the  Elector,  and  as  soon  as  his 
gracious  consent  had  been  received  the  passports  would  be 
sent  to  him.  When  Kohlhaas  inquired  of  his  lawyer  how 
the  cabinet  order  came  to  be  signed  by  a  certain  Baron, 
Siegfried  Wenk,  and  not  by  Prince  Christiern  of  Meissen 
to  whom  he  had  applied,  he  was  told  that  the  Prince  had  set 
out  for  his  estates  three  days  before,  and  during  his  absence 
the  affairs  of  the  Government  Office  had  been  put  in  the 
hands  of  the  Governor  of  the  Palace,  Baron  Siegfried 
Wenk,  a  cousin  of  the  gentleman  of  the  same  name  who  has 
been  already  mentioned. 


378  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

Kohlhaas,  whose  heart  was  beginning  to  beat  uneasily 
amid  all  these  complications,  waited  several  days  for  the 
decision  concerning  his  petition  which  had  been  laid  before 
the  person  of  the  sovereign  with  such  a  surprising  amount 
of  formality.  A  week  passed,  however,  and  more  than  a 
week,  Adthout  the  arrival  of  this  decision;  nor  had  judg- 
ment been  pronounced  by  the  Tribunal,  although  it  had 
been  definitely  promised  him.  Finally,  on  the  twelfth  day, 
Kohlhaas,  firmly  resolved  to  force  the  government  to  pro- 
claim its  intentions  toward  him,  let  them  be  what  they 
would,  sat  down  and,  in  an  urgent  request,  once  more  asked 
the  Government  OflSce  for  the  desired  passports.  On  the 
evening  of  the  following  day,  which  had  likewise  passed 
without  the  expected  answer,  he  was  walking  up  and  down, 
thoughtfully  considering  his  position  and  especially  the 
amnesty  procured  for  him  by  Dr.  Luther,  when,  on  ap- 
proaching the  window  of  his  little  back  room,  he  was 
astonished  not  to  see  the  soldiers  in  the  little  out-building 
on  the  courtyard  which  he  had  designated  as  quarters  for 
the  guard  assigned  him  by  the  Prince  of  Meissen  at  the 
time  of  his  arrival.  He  called  Thomas,  the  old  porter,  to 
him  and  asked  w^hat  it  meant.  The  latter  answered  with  a 
sigh,  ''  Sir,  something  is  wTong!  The  soldiers,  of  whom 
there  are  more  today  than  usual,  distributed  themselves 
around  the  whole  house  when  it  began  to  grow  dark ;  two 
with  shield  and  spear  are  standing  in  the  street  before  the 
front  door,  two  are  at  the  back  door  in  the  garden,  and  two 
others  are  lying  on  a  truss  of  straw  in  the  vestibule  and  say 
that  they  are  going  to  sleep  there." 

Kohlhaas  grew  pale  and  turned  away,  adding  that  it 
really  did  not  matter,  provided  they  were  still  there,  and 
that  w^hen  Thomas  went  down  into  the  corridor  he  should 
place  a  light  so  that  the  soldiers  could  see.  Then  he  opened 
the  shutter  of  the  front  window  under  the  pretext  of  empty- 
ing a  vessel,  and  convinced  himself  of  the  truth  of  the 
circumstance  of  which  the  old  man  had  informed  him,  for 
just  at  that  moment  the  guard  was  actually  being  changed 


1 


MICHAEL  KOHLHAAS  379 

without  a  sound,  a  precaution  which  had  never  before 
entered  any  one's  head  as  long  as  the  arrangement  had 
existed.  After  which,  Kohlhaas,  having  made  up  his  mind 
immediately  what  he  would  do  on  the  morrow,  went  to  bed, 
though,  to  be  sure,  he  felt  little  desire  to  sleep.  For  noth- 
ing in  the  course  of  the  government  with  which  he  was 
dealing  displeased  him  more  than  this  outward  form  of 
justice,  while  in  reality  it  was  violating  in  his  case  the 
amnesty  promised  him,  and  in  case  he  were  to  be  considered 
really  a  prisoner  —  as  could  no  longer  be  doubted  —  he 
intended  to  wring  from  the  government  the  definite  and 
straightforward  statement  that  such  was  the  case. 

In  accordance  with  this  plan,  at  earliest  dawn  he  had 
Stembald,  his  groom,  harness  his  wagon  and  drive  up  to 
the  door,  intending,  as  he  explained,  to  drive  to  Lockwitz 
to  see  the  steward,  an  old  acquaintance  of  his,  who  had  met 
him  a  few  days  before  in  Dresden  and  had  invited  him  and 
his  children  to  visit  him  some  time.  The  soldiers,  who,  put- 
ting their  heads  together,  had  watched  the  stir  which  these 
preparations  were  causing  in  the  household,  secretly  sent 
off  one  of  their  number  to  the  city  and,  a  few  minutes  later, 
a  government  clerk  appeared  at  the  head  of  several  con- 
stables and  went  into  the  house  opposite,  pretending  to 
have  some  business  there.  Kohlhaas,  who  was  occupied  in 
dressing  his  boys,  likewise  noticed  the  commotion  and 
intentionally  kept  the  wagon  waiting  in  front  of  the  house 
longer  than  was  really  necessary.  As  soon  as  he  saw  that 
the  arrangements  of  the  police  were  completed,  without 
paying  any  attention  to  them  he  came  out  before  the  house 
with  his  children.  He  said,  in  passing,  to  the  group  of 
soldiers  standing  in  the  doorway  that  they  did  not  need  to 
follow  him;  then  he  lifted  the  boys  into  the  wagon  and 
kissed  and  comforted  the  weeping  little  girls  who,  in  obe- 
dience to  his  orders,  were  to  remain  behind  with  the 
daughter  of  the  old  porter.  He  had  no  sooner  climbed  up 
on  the  wagon  himself  than  the  government  clerk,  with  the 
constables  who   accompanied  him,   stepped  up  from  the 


380  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

opposite  house  and  asked  where  he  was  going.  To  the 
answer  of  Kohlhaas  that  he  was  going  to  Lockwitz  to  see 
his  friend,  the  steward,  who  a  few  days  before  had  invited 
him  and  his  two  boys  to  visit  him  in  the  country,  the  clerk 
replied  that  in  that  case  Kohlhaas  must  wait  a  few 
moments,  as  some  mounted  soldiers  would  accompany  him 
in  obedience  to  the  order  of  the  Prince  of  Meissen.  From 
his  seat  on  the  wagon  Kohlhaas  asked  smilingly  whether 
he  thought  that  his  life  would  not  be  safe  in  the  house  of 
a  friend  who  had  offered  to  entertain  him  at  his  table  for 
a  day. 

The  official  answered  in  a  pleasant,  joking  way  that  the 
danger  was  certainly  not  very  great,  adding  that  the 
soldiers  were  not  to  incommode  him  in  any  way.  Kohlhaas 
replied,  seriously,  that  on  his  arrival  in  Dresden  the  Prince 
of  Meissen  had  left  it  to  his  own  choice  whether  he  would 
make  use  of  the  guard  or  not,  and  as  the  clerk  seemed 
surprised  at  this  circumstance  and  with  carefully  chosen 
phrases  reminded  him  that  he  had  employed  the  guard 
during  the  whole  time  of  his  presence  in  the  city,  the  horse- 
dealer  related  to  him  the  incident  which  had  led  to  the 
placing  of  the  soldiers  in  his  house.  The  clerk  assured  him 
that  the  orders  of  the  Governor  of  the  Palace,  Baron  Wenk, 
who  was  at  that  moment  head  of  the  police  force,  made  it 
his  duty  to  watch  over  Kohlhaas'  person  continually,  and 
begged  him,  if  he  would  not  consent  to  the  escort,  to  go  to 
the  Government  Office  himself  so  as  to  correct  the  mistake 
which  must  exist  in  the  matter.  Kohlhaas  threw  a  signifi- 
cant glance  at  the  clerk  and,  determined  to  put  an  end  to 
the  matter  by  hook  or  by  crook,  said  that  he  would  do  so. 
With  a  beating  heart  he  got  down  from  the  wagon,  had  the 
porter  carry  the  children  back  into  the  corridor,  and  while 
his  servant  remained  before  the  house  with  the  wagon, 
Kohlhaas  went  off  to  the  Government  Office,  accompanied 
by  the  clerk  and  his  guard. 

It  happened  that  the  Governor  of  the  Palace,  Baron 
Wenk,  was  busy  at  the  moment  inspecting  a  band  of 


MICHAEL  KOHLHAAS  381 

Nagelschmidt's  followers  who  had  been  captured  in  the 
neighborhood  of  Leipzig  and  brought  to  Dresden  the  pre- 
vious evening.  The  knights  who  were  with  the  Governor 
were  just  questioning  the  fellows  about  a  great  many 
things  which  the  government  was  anxious  to  learn  from 
them,  when  the  horse-dealer  entered  the  room  with  his 
escort.  The  Baron,  as  soon  as  he  caught  sight  of  Kohlhaas, 
went  up  to  him  and  asked  him  what  he  wanted,  while  the 
knights  grew  suddenly  silent  and  interrupted  the  interro- 
gation of  the  prisoners.  When  Kohlhaas  had  respectfully 
submitted  to  him  his  purpose  of  going  to  dine  with  the 
steward  at  Lockwitz,  and  expressed  the  wish  to  be  allowed 
to  leave  behind  the  soldiers  of  whom  he  had  no  need,  the 
Baron,  changing  color  and  seeming  to  swallow  some  words 
of  a  different  nature,  answered  that  Kohlhaas  would  do 
well  to  stay  quietly  at  home  and  to  postpone  for  the  pres- 
ent the  feast  at  the  Lockwitz  steward's.  With  that  he 
turned  to  the  clerk,  thus  cutting  short  the  whole  conver- 
sation, and  told  him  that  the  order  which  he  had  given  him 
with  regard  to  this  man  held  good,  and  that  the  latter  must 
not  leave  the  city  unless  accompanied  by  six  mounted 
soldiers. 

Kohlhaas  asked  whether  he  were  a  prisoner,  and  whether 
he  should  consider  that  the  amnesty  which  had  been 
solemnly  promised  to  him  before  the  eyes  of  the  whole 
world  had  been  broken.  At  which  the  Baron,  his  face  turn- 
ing suddenly  a  fiery  red,  wheeled  around  and,  stepping  close 
up  to  him  and  looking  him  in  the  eyes,  answered,  "  Yes! 
Yes!  Yes!  "  Then  he  turned  his  back  upon  him  and,  leav- 
ing Kohlhaas  standing  there,  returned  to  Nagelschmidt's 
followers. 

At  this  Kohlhaas  left  the  room,  and  although  he  realized 
that  the  steps  he  had  taken  had  rendered  much  more  diffi- 
cult the  only  means  of  rescue  that  remained,  namely,  flight, 
he  nevertheless  was  glad  he  had  done  as  he  had,  since  he 
was  now,  on  his  part,  likewise  released  from  obligation  to 
observe  the  conditions  of  the  amnesty.    When  he  reached 


382  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

home  he  had  the  horses  unharnessed,  and,  very  sad  and 
shaken,  went  to  his  room  accompanied  by  the  government 
clerk.  While  this  man,  in  a  way  which  aroused  the  horse- 
dealer's  disgust,  assured  him  that  it  must  all  be  due  to  a 
misunderstanding  which  would  shortly  be  cleared  up,  the 
constables,  at  a  sign  from  him,  bolted  all  the  exits  which 
led  from  the  house  into  the  courtyard.  At  the  same  time 
the  clerk  assured  Kohlhaas  that  the  main  entrance  at  the 
front  of  the  house  still  remained  open  and  that  he  could 
use  it  as  he  pleased. 

Nagelschmidt,  meanwhile,  had  been  so  hard  pushed  on 
all  sides  by  constables  and  soldiers  in  the  woods  of  the 
Ore  Mountains,  that,  entirely  deprived,  as  he  was,  of  the 
necessary  means  of  carrying  through  a  role  of  the  kind 
which  he  had  undertaken,  he  hit  upon  the  idea  of  inducing 
Kohlhaas  to  take  sides  with  him  in  reality.  As  a  traveler 
passing  that  way  had  informed  him  fairly  accurately  of 
the  status  of  Kohlhaas'  lawsuit  in  Dresden,  he  believed 
that,  in  spite  of  the  open  enmity  which  existed  between 
them,  he  could  persuade  the  horse-dealer  to  enter  into  a 
new  alliance  with  him.  He  therefore  sent  off  one  of  his 
men  to  him  with  a  letter,  written  in  almost  unreadable 
German,  to  the  effect  that  if  he  would  come  to  Altenburg 
and  resume  command  of  the  band  which  had  gathered  there 
from  the  remnants  of  his  former  troops  who  had  been 
dispersed,  he,  Nagelschmidt,  was  ready  to  assist  him  to 
escape  from  his  imprisonment  in  Dresden  by  furnishing 
him  with  horses,  men,  and  money.  At  the  same  time  he 
promised  Kohlhaas  that,  in  the  future,  he  would  be  more 
obedient  and  in  general  better  and  more  orderly  than  he 
had  been  before ;  and  to  prove  his  faithfulness  and  devotion 
he  pledged  himself  to  come  in  person  to  the  outskirts  of 
Dresden  in  order  to  effect  Kohlhaas'  deliverance  from  his 
prison. 

The  fellow  charged  with  delivering  this  letter  had  the  bad 
luck,  in  a  village  close  to  Dresden,  to  be  seized  with  a  violent 
fit,  such  as  he  had  been  subject  to  from  childhood.    In  this 


MICHAEL  KOHLHAAS  383 

situation,  the  letter  which  he  was  carrying  in  his  vest  was 
found  by  the  persons  who  came  to  his  assistance ;  the  man 
himself,  as  soon  as  he  had  recovered,  was  arrested  and 
transported  to  the  Government  Office  under  guard,  accom- 
panied by  a  large  crowd  of  people.  As  soon  as  the  Gov- 
ernor of  the  Palace,  Wenk,  had  read  this  letter,  he  went 
immediately  to  the  palace  to  see  the  Elector ;  here  he  found 
present  also  the  President  of  the  Chancery  of  State,  Count 
Kallheim,  and  the  lords  Kunz  and  Hinz,  the  former  of 
whom  had  recovered  from  his  wounds.  These  gentlemen 
were  of  the  opinion  that  Kohlhaas  should  be  arrested 
without  delay  and  brought  to  trial  on  the  charge  of  secret 
complicity  with  Nagelschmidt.  They  went  on  to  demon- 
strate that  such  a  letter  could  not  have  been  written  unless 
there  had  been  preceding  letters  written  by  the  horse- 
dealer,  too,  and  that  it  would  inevitably  result  in  a  wicked 
and  criminal  union  of  their  forces  for  the  purpose  of  plot- 
ting fresh  iniquities. 

The  Elector  steadfastly  refused  to  violate,  merely  on  the 
ground  of  this  letter,  the  safe-conduct  he  had  solemnly 
promised  to  Kohlhaas.  He  was  more  inclined  to  believe 
that  Nagelschmidt 's  letter  made  it  rather  probable  that  no 
previous  connection  had  existed  between  them,  and  all  he 
would  do  to  clear  up  the  matter  was  to  assent,  though  only 
after  long  hesitation,  to  the  President's  proposition  to  have 
the  letter  delivered  to  Kohlhaas  by  the  man  whom  Nagel- 
schmidt had  sent,  just  as  though  he  had  not  been  arrested, 
and  see  whether  Kohlhaas  would  answer  it.  In  accordance 
with  this  plan  the  man,  who  had  been  thrown  into  prison, 
was  taken  to  the  Government  Office  the  next  morning.  The 
Governor  of  the  Palace  gave  him  back  the  letter  and, 
promising  him  freedom  and  the  remission  of  the  pun- 
ishment which  he  had  incurred,  commanded  him  to  deliver 
the  letter  to  the  horse-dealer  as  though  nothing  had  hap- 
pened. As  was  to  be  expected,  the  fellow  lent  himself  to 
this  low  trick  without  hesitation.  In  apparently  mysterious 
fashion  he  gained  admission  to  Kohlhaas'  room  under  the 


384  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

pretext  of  having  crabs  to  sell,  with  which,  in  reality,  the 
government  clerk  had  supplied  him  in  the  market. 

Kohlhaas,  who  read  the  letter  while  the  children  were 
playing  with  the  crabs,  would  certainly  have  seized  the 
imposter  by  the  collar  and  handed  liim  over  to  the  soldiers 
standing  before  his  door,  had  the  circumstances  been  other 
than  they  were.  But  since,  in  the  existing  state  of  men's 
minds,  even  this  step  was  likewise  capable  of  an  equivocal 
interpretation,  and  as  he  was  fully  convinced  that  nothing 
in  the  world  could  rescue  him  from  the  affair  in  which  he 
was  entangled,  he  gazed  sadly  into  the  familiar  face  of  the 
fellow,  asked  him  where  he  lived,  and  bade  him  return  in  a 
few  hours '  time,  when  he  would  inform  him  of  his  decision 
in  regard  to  his  master.  He  told  Sternbald,  who  happened 
to  enter  the  door,  to  buy  some  crabs  from  the  man  in  the 
room,  and  when  this  business  was  concluded  and  both  men 
had  gone  away  without  recognizing  each  other,  Kohlhaas 
sat  do^vn  and  wrote  a  letter  to  Nagelschmidt  to  the  follow- 
ing effect:  ''  First,  that  he  accepted  his  proposition  con- 
cerning the  leadership  of  his  band  in  Altenburg,  and  that 
accordingly,  in  order  to  free  him  from  the  present  arrest 
in  which  he  was  held  with  his  five  children,  Nagelschmidt 
should  send  him  a  wagon  with  two  horses  to  Neustadt  near 
Dresden.  Also  that,  to  facilitate  progress,  he  would  need 
another  team  of  two  horses  on  the  road  to  Wittenberg, 
which  way,  though  roundabout,  was  the  only  one  he  could 
take  to  come  to  him,  for  reasons  which  it  would  require  too 
much  time  to  explain.  He  thought  that  he  would  be  able 
to  win  over  by  bribery  the  soldiers  who  were  guarding  him, 
but  in  case  force  were  necessary  he  w^ould  like  to  know  that 
he  could  count  on  the  presence  of  a  couple  of  stout-hearted, 
capable,  and  well-armed  men  in  the  suburb  of  Neustadt.  To 
defray  the  expenses  connected  with  all  these  preparations, 
he  was  sending  Nagelschmidt  by  his  follower  a  roll  of 
twenty  gold  crowns  concerning  the  expenditure  of  which  he 
would  settle  with  him  after  the  affair  was  concluded.  For 
the  rest,  Nagelschmidt 's  presence  being  unnecessary,  he 


MICHAEL  KOHLHAAS  385 

would  ask  him  not  to  come  in  person  to  Dresden  to  assist 
at  his  rescue  —  nay,  rather,  he  gave  him  the  definite  order 
to  remain  behind  in  Altenburg  in  provisional  command  of 
the  band  which  could  not  be  left  without  a  leader. ' ' 

When  the  man  returned  toward  evening,  he  delivered 
this  letter  to  him,  rewarded  him  liberally,  and  impressed 
upon  him  that  he  must  take  good  care  of  it. 

Kohlhaas '  intention  was  to  go  to  Hamburg  with  his  five 
children  and  there  to  take  ship  for  the  Levant,  the  East 
Indies,  or  the  most  distant  land  where  the  blue  sky  stretched 
above  people  other  than  those  he  knew.  For  his  heart, 
bowed  down  by  grief,  had  renounced  the  hope  of  ever  seeing 
the  black  horses  fattened,  even  apart  from  the  reluctance 
that  he  felt  in  making  common  cause  with  Nagelschmidt  to 
that  end. 

Hardly  had  the  fellow  delivered  this  answer  of  the  horse- 
dealer's  to  the  Governor  of  the  Palace  when  the  Lord  High 
Chancellor  was  deposed,  the  President,  Count  Kallheim, 
was  appointed  Chief  Justice  of  the  Tribunal  in  his  stead, 
and  Kohlhaas  was  arrested  by  a  special  order  of  the 
Elector,  heavily  loaded  with  chains,  and  thrown  into  the 
city  tower.  He  was  brought  to  trial  upon  the  basis  of  this 
letter,  which  was  posted  at  every  street-corner  of  the  city. 
When  a  councilor  held  it  up  before  Kohlhaas  at  the  bar  of 
the  Tribunal  and  asked  whether  he  acknowledged  the  hand- 
writing, he  answered,  "Yes;"  but  to  the  question  as  to 
whether  he  had  anything  to  say  in  his  defense,  he  looked 
down  at  the  ground  and  replied,  * '  No. ' '  He  was  therefore 
condemned  to  be  tortured  with  red-hot  pincers  by  knacker's 
men,  to  be  drawn  and  quartered,  and  his  body  to  be  burned 
between  the  wheel  and  the  gallows. 

Thus  stood  matters  with  poor  Kohlhaas  in  Dresden  when 
the  Elector  of  Brandenburg  appeared  to  rescue  him  from 
the  clutches  of  arbitrary,  superior  power,  and,  in  a  note 
laid  before  the  Chancery  of  State  in  Dresden,  claimed  him 
as  a  subject  of  Brandenburg.  For  the  honest  City  Gov- 
ernor, Sir  Heinrich  von  Geusau,  during  a  walk  on  the  banks 
Vol.  IV  — 25 


386  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

of  the  Spree,  had  acquainted  the  Elector  with  the  story  of 
this  strange  and  irreprehensible  man,  on  which  occasion, 
pressed  by  the  questions  of  the  astonished  sovereign,  he 
could  not  avoid  mentioning  the  blame  which  lay  heavy  upon 
the  latter 's  own  person  through  the  unwarranted  actions  of 
his  Arch-Chancellor,  Count  Siegfried  von  Kallheim.  The 
Elector  was  extremely  indignant  about  the  matter  and 
after  he  had  called  the  Arch-Chancellor  to  account  and 
found  that  the  relationship  which  he  bore  to  the  house  of 
the  Tronkas  was  to  blame  for  it  all,  he  deposed  Count  Kall- 
heim at  once,  with  more  than  one  token  of  his  displeasure, 
and  appointed  Sir  Heinrich  von  Geusau  to  be  Arch-Chan- 
cellor in  his  stead. 

Now  it  so  happened  that,  just  at  that  time,  the  King  of 
Poland,  being  at  odds  with  the  House  of  Saxony,  for  what 
occasion  we  do  not  know,  approached  the  Elector  of  Bran- 
denburg with  repeated  and  urgent  arguments  to  induce 
him  to  make  common  cause  with  them  against  the  House  of 
Saxony,  and,  in  consequence  of  this,  the  Arch-Chancellor, 
Sir  Geusau,  who  was  not  unskilful  in  such  matters,  might 
very  well  hope  that,  without  imperiling  the  peace  of  the 
whole  state  to  a  greater  extent  than  consideration  for  an 
individual  warrants,  he  would  now  be  able  to  fulfil  his 
sovereign's  desire  to  secure  justice  for  Kohlhaas  at  any 
cost  whatever. 

Therefore  the  Arch-Chancellor  did  not  content  himself 
with  demanding,  on  the  score  of  wholly  arbitrary  pro- 
cedure, displeasing  to  God  and  man,  that  Kohlhaas  should 
be  unconditionally  and  immediately  surrendered,  so  that, 
if  guilty  of  a  crime,  he  might  be  tried  according  to  the  laws 
of  Brandenburg  on  charges  which  the  Dresden  Court  might 
bring  against  him  through  an  attorney  at  Berlin;  but  Sir 
Heinrich  von  Geusau  even  went  so  far  as  himself  to  demand 
passports  for  an  attorney  whom  the  Elector  of  Branden- 
burg wished  to  send  to  Dresden  in  order  to  secure  justice 
for  Kohlhaas  against  Squire  Wenzel  Tronka  on  account  of 
the  black  horses  which  had  been  taken  from  him  on  Saxon 


MICHAEL  KOHLHAAS  387 

territory  and  other  flagrant  instances  of  ill-usage  and  acts 
of  violence.  The  Chamberlain,  Sir  Kunz,  in  the  shifting 
of  public  offices  in  Saxony,  had  been  appointed  President 
of  the  State  Chancery,  and,  hard  pressed  as  he  was,  desired, 
for  a  variety  of  reasons,  not  to  offend  the  Court  of  Berlin. 
He  therefore  answered  in  the  name  of  his  sovereign,  who 
had  been  very  greatly  cast  down  by  the  note  he  had  received, 
that  they  wondered  at  the  unfriendliness  and  unreasonable- 
ness which  had  prompted  the  government  of  Brandenburg 
to  contest  the  right  of  the  Dresden  Court  to  judge  Kohl- 
haas  according  to  their  laws  for  the  crimes  which  he  had 
committed  in  the  land,  as  it  was  known  to  all  the  world  that 
the  latter  owned  a  considerable  piece  of  property  in  the 
capital,  and  he  did  not  himself  dispute  his  qualification  as 
a  Saxon  citizen. 

But  as  the  King  of  Poland  was  already  assembling  an 
army  of  five  thousand  men  on  the  frontier  of  Saxony  to 
fight  for  his  claims,  and  as  the  Arch-Chancellor,  Sir  Hein- 
rich  von  Geusau,  declared  that  Kohlhaasenbrtick,  the  place 
after  which  the  horse-dealer  was  named,  was  situated  in 
Brandenburg,  and  that  they  would  consider  the  execution 
of  the  sentence  of  death  which  had  been  pronounced  upon 
him  to  be  a  violation  of  international  law,  the  Elector  of 
Saxony,  upon  the  advice  of  the  Chamberlain,  Sir  Kunz  him- 
self, who  wished  to  back  out  of  the  affair,  summoned  Prince 
Christiern  of  Meissen  from  his  estate,  and  decided,  after 
a  few  words  with  this  sagacious  nobleman,  to  surrender 
Kohlhaas  to  the  Court  of  Berlin  in  accordance  with  their 
demand. 

The  Prince,  who,  although  very  much  displeased  with  the 
unseemly  blunders  which  had  been  committed,  was  forced 
to  take  over  the  conduct  of  the  Kohlhaas  affair  at  the  wish 
of  his  hard-pressed  master,  asked  the  Elector  what  charge 
he  now  wished  to  have  lodged  against  the  horse-dealer  in 
the  Supreme  Court  at  Berlin.  As  they  could  not  refer  to 
Kohlhaas'  fatal  letter  to  Nagelschmidt  because  of  the  ques- 
tionable and  obscure  circumstances  under  which  it  had  been 


388  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

written,  nor  mention  the  former  plundering  and  burning 
because  of  the  edict  in  which  the  same  had  been  par- 
doned, the  Elector  determined  to  lay  before  the  Emperor's 
Majesty  at  Vienna  a  report  concerning  the  armed  invasion 
of  Saxony  by  Kohlhaas,  to  make  complaint  concerning  the 
violation  of  the  public  peace  established  by  the  Emperor, 
and  to  solicit  His  Majesty,  since  he  was  of  course  not  bound 
by  any  amnesty,  to  call  Kohlhaas  to  account  therefor  before 
the  Court  Tribunal  at  Berlin  through  an  attorney  of  the 
Empire. 

A  week  later  the  horse-dealer,  still  in  chains,  was  packed 
into  a  wagon  by  the  Knight  Friedrich  of  Malzalm,  whom 
the  Elector  of  Brandenburg  had  sent  to  Dresden  at  the 
head  of  six  troopers;  and,  together  with  his  five  children, 
who  at  his  request  had  been  collected  from  various  found- 
ling hospitals  and  orphan  asylums,  was  transported  to 
Berlin. 

It  so  happened  that  the  Elector  of  Saxony,  accompanied 
by  the  Chamberlain,  Sir  Kunz,  and  his  wife.  Lady  Heloise, 
daughter  of  the  High  Bailiff  and  sister  of  the  President, 
not  to  mention  other  brilliant  ladies  and  gentlemen,  hunt- 
ing-pages and  courtiers,  had  gone  to  Dahme  at  the  invita- 
tion of  the  High  Bailiff,  Count  Aloysius  of  Kallheim,  who 
at  that  time  possessed  a  large  estate  on  the  border  of  Sax- 
ony, and,  to  entertain  the  Elector,  had  organized  a  large 
stag-hunt  there.  Under  the  shelter  of  tents  gaily  decorated 
with  pennons,  erected  on  a  hill  over  against  the  highroad, 
the  whole  company,  still  covered  with  the  dust  of  the  hunt, 
was  sitting  at  table,  served  by  pages,  while  lively  music 
sounded  from  the  trunk  of  an  oak-tree,  when  Kohlhaas  with 
his  escort  of  troopers  came  riding  slowly  along  the  road 
from  Dresden.  The  sudden  illness  of  one  of  Kohlhaas* 
delicate  young  children  had  obliged  the  Knight  of  Malzahn, 
who  was  his  escort,  to  delay  three  whole  days  in  Herzberg. 
Having  to  answer  for  this  act  only  to  the  Prince  whom  he 
served,  the  Knight  had  not  thought  it  necessary  to  inform 
the  government  of  Saxony  of  the  delay.       The  Elector, 


MICHAEL  KOHLHAAS  389 

with  throat  half  bare,  his  plumed  hat  decorated  with  sprigs 
of  fir,  as  is  the  way  of  hunters,  was  seated  beside  Lady 
Heloise,  who  had  been  the  first  love  of  his  early  youth.  The 
charm  of  the  fete  which  surrounded  him  having  put  him  in 
good  humor,  he  said,  *'  Let  us  go  and  offer  this  goblet  of 
wine  to  the  unfortunate  man,  whoever  he  may  be." 

Lady  Heloise,  casting  an  entrancing  glance  at  him,  got 
up  at  once,  and,  plundering  the  whole  table,  filled  a  silver 
dish  which  a  page  handed  her  with  fruit,  cakes,  and  bread. 
The  entire  company  had  already  left  the  tent  in  a  body, 
carrying  refreshments  of  every  kind,  when  the  High  Bailiff 
came  toward  them  and  with  an  embarrassed  air  begged 
them  to  remain  where  they  were.  In  answer  to  the  Elector 's 
disconcerted  question  as  to  what  had  happened  that  he 
should  show  such  confusion,  the  High  Bailiff  turned  toward 
the  Chamberlain  and  answered,  stammering,  that  it  was 
Kohlhaas  who  was  in  the  wagon.  At  this  piece  of  news, 
which  none  of  the  company  could  understand,  as  it  was  well 
known  that  the  horse-dealer  had  set  out  six  days  before, 
the  Chamberlain,  Sir  Kunz,  turning  back  toward  the  tent, 
poured  out  his  glass  of  wine  on  the  ground.  The  Elector, 
flushing  scarlet,  set  his  glass  down  on  a  plate  which  a  page, 
at  a  sign  from  the  Chamberlain,  held  out  to  him  for  this 
purpose,  and  while  the  Knight,  Friedrich  von  Malzahn, 
respectfully  saluting  the  company,  who  were  unknown  to 
him,  passed  slowly  under  the  tent  ropes  that  were  stretched 
across  the  highroad  and  continued  on  his  way  to  Dahme, 
the  lords  and  ladies,  at  the  invitation  of  the  High  Bailiff, 
returned  to  the  tent  without  taking  any  further  notice  of 
the  party.  As  soon  as  the  Elector  had  sat  down  again,  the 
High  Bailiff  dispatched  a  messenger  secretly  to  Dahme 
intending  to  have  the  magistrate  of  that  place  see  to  it  that 
the  horse-dealer  continued  his  journey  immediately;  but 
since  the  Knight  of  Malzahn  declared  positively  that,  as 
the  day  was  too  far  gone,  he  intended  to  spend  the  night 
in  the  place,  they  had  to  be  content  to  lodge  Kohlhaas 
quietly  at  a  farm-house  belonging  to  the  magistrate,  which 
lay  off  the  main  road,  hidden  away  among  the  bushes. 


390  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

Now  it  came  about  toward  evening,  when  all  recollection 
of  the  incident  had  been  driven  from  the  minds  of  the  lords 
and  ladies  by  the  wine  and  the  abundant  dessert  they  had 
enjoyed,  that  the  High  Bailiff  proposed  they  should  again 
lie  in  wait  for  a  herd  of  stags  which  had  shown  itself  in  the 
vicinity.  The  whole  company  took  up  the  suggestion  joy- 
fully, and  after  they  had  provided  themselves  with  guns 
went  off  in  pairs,  over  ditches  and  hedges,  into  the  near-by 
forest.  Thus  it  was  that  the  Elector  and  Lady  Heloise, 
who  was  hanging  on  his  arm  in  order  to  watch  the  sport, 
were,  to  their  great  astonishment,  led  by  a  messenger  who 
had  been  placed  at  their  service,  directly  across  the  court 
of  the  house  in  which  Kohlhaas  and  the  Brandenburg 
troopers  were  lodged.  AVhen  Lady  Heloise  was  informed 
of  this  she  cried,  '*  Your  Highness,  come!  "  and  playfully 
concealing  inside  his  silken  vest  the  chain  which  hung 
around  his  neck  she  added,  **  Before  the  crowd  follows  us 
let  us  slip  into  the  farm-house  and  have  a  look  at  the  singu- 
lar man  who  is  spending  the  night  here."  The  Elector 
blushed  and  seized  her  hand  exclaiming,  ' '  Heloise !  What 
are  you  thinking  of  ?  "  But  as  she,  looking  at  him  with 
amazement,  pulled  him  along  and  assured  him  that  no  one 
would  ever  recognize  him  in  the  hunting-costume  he  had  on, 
and  as,  moreover,  at  this  very  moment  a  couple  of  hunting- 
pages  who  had  already  satisfied  their  curiosity  came  out  of 
the  house,  and  announced  that  in  truth,  on  account  of  an 
arrangement  made  by  the  High  Bailiff,  neither  the  Knight 
nor  the  horse-dealer  knew  what  company  was  assembled 
in  the  neighborhood  of  Dahme,  the  Elector  pulled  his  hat 
down  over  his  eyes  with  a  smile  and  said,  ''  Folly,  thou 
rulest  the  world,  and  thy  throne  is  a  beautiful  woman's 
mouth!  " 

Kohlhaas  was  sitting  just  then  on  a  bundle  of  straw  with 
his  back  against  the  wall,  feeding  bread  and  milk  to  his 
child  who  had  been  taken  ill  at  Herzberg,  when  Lady 
Heloise  and  the  Elector  entered  the  farm-house  to  visit  him. 
To  start  the  conversation,  Lady  Heloise  asked  him  who  he 


MICHAEL  KOHLHAAS  391 

was  and  what  was  the  matter  with  the  child;  also  what 
crime  he  had  committed  and  where  they  were  taking  him 
with  such  an  escort.  Kohlhaas  doffed  his  leather  cap  to 
her  and,  continuing  his  occupation,  made  laconic  but  satis- 
factory answers  to  all  these  questions.  The  Elector,  who 
was  standing  behind  the  hunting-pages,  remarked  a  little 
leaden  locket  hanging  on  a  silk  string  around  the  horse- 
dealer's  neck,  and,  since  no  better  topic  of  conversation 
offered  itself,  he  asked  him  what  it  signified  and  what  was 
in  it.  Kohlhaas  answered,  "  Oh,  yes,  worshipful  Sir,  this 
locket !  ' '  and  with  that  he  slipped  it  from  his  neck,  opened 
it,  and  took  out  a  little  piece  of  paper  with  writing  on  it, 
sealed  with  a  wafer.  ''  There  is  a  strange  tale  connected 
with  this  locket.  It  may  be  some  seven  months  ago,  on  the 
very  day  after  my  wife's  funeral  —  and,  as  you  perhaps 
know,  I  had  left  Kolilhaasenbriick  in  order  to  get  posses- 
sion of  Squire  Tronka,  who  had  done  me  great  wrong  — 
that  in  the  market-town  of  Jiiterbock,  through  which  my 
expedition  led  me,  the  Elector  of  Saxony  and  the  Elector 
of  Brandenburg  had  met  to  discuss  I  know  not  what  matter. 
As  they  had  settled  it  to  their  liking  shortly  before  evening, 
they  were  walking  in  friendly  conversation  through  the 
streets  of  the  town  in  order  to  take  a  look  at  the  annual 
fair  which  was  just  being  held  there  with  much  merry- 
making. They  came  upon  a  gipsy  who  was  sitting  on  a 
stool,  telling  from  the  calendar  the  fortunes  of  the  crowd 
that  surrounded  her.  The  two  sovereigns  asked  her  jok- 
ingly if  she  did  not  have  something  pleasing  to  reveal  to 
them  too?  I  had  just  dismounted  with  my  troop  at  an  inn, 
and  happened  to  be  present  in  the  square  where  this  inci- 
dent occurred,  but  as  I  was  standing  at  the  entrance  of  a 
church,  behind  all  the  people,  I  could  not  hear  what  the 
strange  woman  said  to  the  two  lords.  The  people  began 
to  whisper  to  one  another  laughingly  that  she  did  not 
impart  her  knowledge  to  every  one,  and  to  crowd  together 
to  see  the  spectacle  which  was  preparing,  so  that  I,  really 
more  to  make  room  for  the  curious  than  out  of  curiositv 


392  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

on  my  part,  climbed  on  a  bench  behind  me  which  was  carved 
in  the  entrance  of  the  church.  From  this  point  of  vantage 
I  could  see  with  perfect  ease  the  two  sovereigns  and  the 
old  woman,  who  was  sitting  on  the  stool  before  them  appa- 
rently scribbling  something  down.  But  hardly  had  I  caught 
sight  of  them,  when  suddenly  she  got  up,  leaning  on  her 
crutches,  and,  gazing  around  at  the  people,  fixed  her  eye 
on  me,  who  had  never  exchanged  a  word  with  her  nor  ever 
in  all  my  life  consulted  her  art.  Pushing  her  way  over  to 
me  through  the  dense  crowd,  she  said,  '  There !  If  the 
gentleman  wishes  to  know  his  fortune,  he  may  ask  you 
about  it!  '  And  with  these  words,  your  Worship,  she 
stretched  out  her  thin  bony  hands  to  me  and  gave  me  this 
paper.  All  the  people  turned  around  in  my  direction,  as 
I  said,  amazed,  *  Grandam,  what  in  the  world  is  this  you 
are  giving  me?  '  After  mumbling  a  lot  of  inaudible  non- 
sense, amid  which,  however,  to  my  great  surprise,  I  made 
out  my  own  name,  she  answered,  'An  amulet,  Kohlhaas  the 
horse-dealer;  take  good  care  of  it;  some  day  it  will  save 
your  life ! '  —  and  vanished.  Well,  Kohlhaas  continued 
good-naturedly,  ''  to  tell  the  truth,  close  as  was  the  call  in 
Dresden,  I  did  not  lose  my  life;  but  how  I  shall  fare  in 
Berlin  and  whether  the  charm  will  help  me  out  there  too, 
the  future  must  show." 

At  these  words  the  Elector  seated  himself  on  a  bench, 
and  although  to  Lady  Heloise's  frightened  question  as  to 
what  was  the  matter  with  him,  he  answered,  ' '  Nothing, 
nothing  at  all!  "  —  yet,  before  she  could  spring  forward 
and  catch  him  in  her  arms,  he  had  sunk  down  unconscious 
to  the  floor. 

The  Knight  of  Malzahn  who  entered  the  room  at  this 
moment  on  some  errand,  exclaimed,  '*  Good  heavens,  what 
is  the  matter  with  the  gentleman!  "  Lady  Heloise  cried, 
* '  Bring  some  water ! ' '  The  hunting-pages  raised  the 
Elector  and  carried  him  to  a  bed  in  the  next  room,  and  the 
consternation  reached  its  height  when  the  Chamberlain, 
who  had  been  summoned  by  a  page,  declared,  after  repeated 


MICHAEL  KOHLHAAS  393 

vain  efforts  to  restore  him  to  consciousness,  that  he  showed 
every  sign  of  having  been  struck  by  apoplexy.  The  Cup- 
bearer sent  a  mounted  messenger  to  Luckau  for  the  doctor, 
and  then,  as  the  Elector  opened  his  eyes,  the  High  Bailiff 
had  him  placed  in  a  carriage  and  transported  at  a  walk  to 
his  hunting-castle  near-by;  this  journey,  however,  caused 
two  more  fainting  spells  after  he  had  arrived  there.  Not 
until  late  the  next  morning,  on  the  arrival  of  the  doctor 
from  Luckau,  did  he  recover  somewhat,  though  showing 
definite  symptoms  of  an  approaching  nervous  fever.  As 
soon  as  he  had  returned  to  consciousness  he  raised  himself 
on  his  elbow,  and  his  very  first  question  was,  ' '  Where  is 
Kohlhaas? "  The  Chamberlain,  misunderstanding  the 
question,  said,  as  he  took  his  hand,  that  he  might  set  his 
heart  at  rest  on  the  subject  of  that  horrible  man,  as  the 
latter,  after  that  strange  and  incomprehensible  incident, 
had  by  his  order  remained  behind  in  the  farm-house  at 
Dahme  with  the  escort  from  Brandenburg.  Assuring  the 
Elector  of  his  most  lively  sympathy,  and  protesting  that  he 
had  most  bitterly  reproached  his  wife  for  her  inexcusable 
indiscretion  in  bringing  about  a  meeting  between  him  and 
this  man,  the  Chamberlain  went  on  to  ask  what  could  have 
occurred  during  the  interview  to  affect  his  master  so 
strangely  and  profoundly. 

The  Elector  answered  that  he  was  obliged  to  confess  to 
him  that  the  sight  of  an  insignificant  piece  of  paper,  which 
the  man  carried  about  with  him  in  a  leaden  locket,  was  to 
blame  for  the  whole  unpleasant  incident  which  had  befallen 
him.  To  explain  the  circumstance,  he  added  a  variety  of 
other  things  which  the  Chamberlain  could  not  understand, 
then  suddenly,  clasping  the  latter 's  hand  in  his  own,  he 
assured  him  that  the  possession  of  this  paper  was  of  the 
utmost  importance  to  himself  and  begged  Sir  Kunz  to 
mount  immediately,  ride  to  Dahme,  and  purchase  the  paper 
for  him  from  the  horse-dealer  at  any  price.  The  Chamber- 
lain, w^ho  had  difficulty  in  concealing  his  embarrassment, 
assured  him  that,  if  this  piece  of  paper  had  any  value  for 


394  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

him,  nothing  in  the  world  was  more  necessary  than  to  con- 
ceal the  fact  from  Kohlhaas,  for  if  the  latter  should  receive 
an  indiscreet  intimation  of  it,  all  the  riches  the  Elector  pos- 
sessed would  not  be  sufficient  to  buy  it  from  the  hands  of 
this  vindictive  fellow,  whose  passion  for  revenge  was 
insatiable.  To  calm  his  master  he  added  that  they  must 
try  to  find  another  method,  and  that,  as  the  miscreant  prob- 
ably was  not  especially  attached  to  it  for  its  own  sake, 
perhaps,  by  using  stratagem,  they  might  get  possession  of 
the  paper,  which  was  of  so  much  importance  to  the  Elector, 
through  the  instrumentality  of  a  third  wholly  disinterested 
person. 

The  Elector,  wiping  away  the  perspiration,  asked  if  they 
could  not  send  immediately  to  Dahme  for  this  purpose  and 
put  a  stop  to  the  horse-dealer's  being  transported  further 
for  the  present  until,  by  some  means  or  other,  they  had 
obtained  possession  of  the  paper.  The  Chamberlain,  who 
could  hardly  believe  his  senses,  replied  that  unhappily, 
according  to  all  probable  calculations,  the  horse-dealer  must 
already  have  left  Dahme  and  be  across  the  border  on  the 
soil  of  Brandenburg;  any  attempt  to  interfere  there  with 
his  being  carried  away,  or  actually  to  put  a  stop  to  it  alto- 
gether, would  give  rise  to  difficulties  of  the  most  unpleasant 
and  intricate  kind,  or  even  to  such  as  it  might  perchance 
be  impossible  to  overcome  at  all.  As  the  Elector  silently 
sank  back  on  the  pillow  with  a  look  of  utter  despair,  the 
Chamberlain  asked  him  what  the  paper  contained  and  by 
what  surprising  and  inexplicable  chance  he  knew  that  the 
contents  concerned  himself.  At  this,  however,  the  Elector 
cast  several  ambiguous  glances  at  the  Chamberlain,  whose 
obligingness  he  distrusted  on  this  occasion,  and  gave  no 
answer.  He  lay  there  rigid,  with  his  heart  beating  tumultu- 
ously,  and  looked  down  at  the  corner  of  the  handkerchief 
which  he  was  holding  in  his  hands  as  if  lost  in  thought. 
Suddenly  he  begged  the  Chamberlain  to  call  to  his  room  the 
hunting-page.  Stein,  an  active,  clever  young  gentleman 
whom  he  had.  often  employed  before  in  affairs  of  a  secret 


MICHAEL  KOHLHAAS        — =r     395 

nature,  under  the  pretense  that  he  had  some  other  business 
to  negotiate  with  him. 

After  he  had  explained  the  matter  to  the  hunting-page 
and  impressed  upon  him  the  importance  of  the  paper  which 
was  in  Kohlhaas '  possession,  the  Elector  asked  him  whether 
he  wished  to  win  an  eternal  right  to  his  friendship  by  pro- 
curing this  paper  for  him  before  the  horse-dealer  reached 
Berlin.  As  soon  as  the  page  had  to  some  extent  grasped 
the  situation,  unusual  though  it  w^as,  he  assured  his  master 
that  he  would  serve  him  to  the  utmost  of  his  ability.  The 
Elector  therefore  charged  him  to  ride  after  Kohlhaas,  and 
as  it  would  probably  be  impossible  to  approach  him  with 
money,  Stein  should,  in  a  cleverly  conducted  conversation, 
proffer  him  life  and  freedom  in  exchange  for  the  paper — 
indeed,  if  Kohlhaas  insisted  upon  it,  he  should,  though  mth 
all  possible  caution,  give  him  direct  assistance  in  escaping 
from  the  hands  of  the  Brandenburg  troopers  who  were 
convoying  him,  by  furnishing  him  with  horses,  men,  and 
money. 

The  hunting-page,  after  procuring  as  a  credential  a  paper 
written  by  the  Elector's  own  hand,  did  immediately  set  out 
with  several  men,  and  by  not  sparing  the  horses'  wind  he 
had  the  good  luck  to  overtake  Kohlhaas  in  a  village  on  the 
border,  where  with  his  five  children  and  the  Knight  of 
Malzahn  he  was  eating  dinner  in  the  open  air  before  the 
door  of  a  house.  The  hunting-page  introduced  himself  to 
the  Knight  of  Malzahn  as  a  stranger  who  was  passing  by 
and  wished  to  have  a  look  at  the  extraordinary  man  whom 
he  was  escorting.  The  Knight  at  once  made  him  acquainted 
with  Kohlhaas  and  politely  urged  him  to  sit  down  at  the 
table,  and  since  Malzahn,  busied  with  the  preparations  for 
their  departure,  was  obliged  to  keep  coming  and  going  con- 
tinually, and  the  troopers  were  eating  their  dinner  at  a 
table  on  the  other  side  of  the  house,  the  hunting-page  soon 
found  an  opportunity  to  reveal  to  the  horse-dealer  who  he 
was  and  on  what  a  peculiar  mission  he  had  come  to  him. 


396  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

The  horse-dealer  already  knew  the  name  and  rank  of  the 
man  who,  at  sight  of  the  locket  in  question,  had  swooned 
in  the  farm-house  at  Dahme ;  and  to  put  the  finishing  touch 
to  the  tumult  of  excitement  into  which  this  discovery  had 
throwTi  him,  he  needed  only  an  insight  into  the  secrets 
contained  in  the  paper  which,  for  many  reasons,  he  was 
determined  not  to  open  out  of  mere  curiosity.  He  answered 
that,  in  consideration  of  the  ungenerous  and  unprincely 
treatment  he  had  been  forced  to  endure  in  Dresden  in  re- 
turn for  his  complete  willingness  to  make  every  possible 
sacrifice,  he  would  keep  the  paper.  To  the  hunting-page's 
question  as  to  what  induced  him  to  make  such  an  extraor- 
dinary refusal  when  he  was  offered  in  exchange  nothing 
less  than  life  and  liberty,  Kohlhaas  answered,  ''  Noble  Sir, 
if  your  sovereign  should  come  to  me  and  say,  '  Myself  and 
the  whole  company  of  those  who  help  me  wield  my  sceptre 
I  will  destroy  —  destroy,  you  understand,  which  is,  I  admit, 
the  dearest  wish  that  my  soul  cherishes,'  I  should  never- 
theless still  refuse  to  give  him  the  paper  which  is  worth 
more  to  him  than  life,  and  should  say  to  him,  *  You  have  the 
authority  to  send  me  to  the  scaffold,  but  I  can  cause  you 
pain,  and  I  intend  to  do  so!'"  And  with  these  words 
Kohlhaas,  vdth  death  staring  him  in  the  face,  called  a 
trooper  to  him  and  told  him  to  take  a  nice  bit  of  food  which 
had  been  left  in  the  dish.  All  the  rest  of  the  hour  which  he 
spent  in  the  place  he  acted  as  though  he  did  not  see  the 
young  nobleman  who  was  sitting  at  the  table,  and  not  until 
he  climbed  up  on  the  w^agon  did  he  turn  around  to  the 
hunting-page  again  and  salute  him  with  a  parting  glance. 

When  the  Elector  received  this  news  his  condition  grew 
so  much  worse  that  for  three  fateful  days  the  doctor  had 
grave  fears  for  his  life,  wiiich  was  being  attacked  on  so 
many  sides  at  once.  However,  thanks  to  his  naturally  good 
constitution,  after  several  weeks  spent  in  pain  on  the  sick- 
bed, he  recovered  sufficiently,  at  least,  to  permit  his  being 
placed  in  a  carriage  well  supplied  with  pillows  and  cover- 
ings, and  brought  back  to  Dresden  to  take  up  the  affairs  of 
government  once  more. 


MICHAEL  KOHLHAAS  397 

As  soon  as  he  had  arrived  in  the  city  he  summoned  Prince 
Christiern  of  Meissen  and  asked  him  what  had  been  done 
about  dispatching  Judge  Eibenmaier,  whom  the  govern- 
ment had  thought  of  sending  to  Vienna  as  its  attorney  in 
the  Kohlhaas  affair,  in  order  to  lay  a  complaint  before  his 
Imperial  Majesty  concerning  the  violation  of  the  public 
peace  proclaimed  by  the  Emperor. 

The  Prince  answered  that  the  Judge,  in  conformity  with 
the  order  the  Elector  had  left  behind  on  his  departure  for 
Dahme,  had  set  out  for  Vienna  immediately  after  the 
arrival  of  the  jurist,  Zauner,  whom  the  Elect-or  of  Branden- 
burg had  sent  to  Dresden  as  his  attorney  in  order  to  insti- 
tute legal  proceedings  against  Squire  Wenzel  Tronka  in 
regard  to  the  black  horses. 

The  Elector  flushed  and  walked  over  to  his  desk,  express- 
ing surprise  at  this  haste,  since,  to  his  certain  knowledge, 
he  had  made  it  clear  that  because  of  the  necessity  for  a 
preliminary  consultation  with  Dr.  Luther,  who  had  pro- 
cured the  amnesty  for  Kohlhaas,  he  wished  to  postpone  the 
final  departure  of  Eibenmaier  until  he  should  give  a  more 
explicit  and  definite  order.  At  the  same  time,  with  an 
expression  of  restrained  anger,  he  tossed  about  some  let- 
ters and  deeds  which  were  lying  on  his  desk.  The  Prince, 
after  a  pause  during  which  he  stared  in  surprise  at  his 
master,  answered  that  he  was  sorry  if  he  had  failed  to  give 
him  satisfaction  in  this  matter;  however,  he  could  show 
the  decision  of  the  Council  of  State  enjoining  him  to  send 
off  the  attorney  at  the  time  mentioned.  He  added  that  in 
the  Council  of  State  nothing  at  all  had  been  said  of  a  con- 
sultation with  Dr.  Luther;  that  earlier  in  the  affair,  it 
would  perhaps  have  been  expedient  to  pay  some  regard  to 
this  reverend  gentleman  because  of  his  intervention  in 
Kohlhaas '  behalf ;  but  that  this  was  no  longer  the  case,  now 
that  the  promised  amnesty  had  been  violated  before  the  eyes 
of  the  world  and  Kohlhaas  had  been  arrested  and  sur- 
rendered to  the  Brandenburg  courts  to  be  sentenced  and 
executed. 


398  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

The  Elector  replied  that  the  error  committed  in  dis- 
patching Eibenmaier  was,  in  fact,  not  a  very  serious  one; 
he  expressed  a  wish,  however,  that,  for  the  present,  the 
latter  should  not  act  in  Vienna  in  his  official  capacity  as 
plaintiff  for  Saxony,  but  should  await  further  orders,  and 
begged  the  Prince  to  send  off  to  him  immediately  by  a 
courier  the  instructions  necessary  to  this  end. 

The  Prince  answered  that,  unfortunately,  this  order  came 
just  one  day  too  late,  as  Eibenmaier,  according  to  a  report 
which  had  just  arrived  that  day,  had  already  acted  in  his 
capacity  as  plaintiff  and  had  proceeded  with  the  presen- 
tation of  the  complaint  at  the  State  Chancery  in  Vienna. 
In  answer  to  the  Elector's  dismayed  question  as  to  how  all 
this  was  possible  in  so  short  a  time,  he  added  that  three 
weeks  had  passed  since  the  departure  of  this  man  and  that 
the  instructions  he  had  received  had  charged  him  to  settle 
the  business  with  all  possible  dispatch  immediately  after 
his  arrival  in  Vienna.  A  delay,  the  Prince  added,  would 
have  been  all  the  more  inadvisable  in  this  case,  as  the 
Brandenburg  attorney,  Zauner,  was  proceeding  against 
Squire  Wenzel  Tronka  with  the  most  stubborn  persistence 
and  had  already  petitioned  the  court  for  the  provisional 
removal  of  the  black  horses  from  the  hands  of  the  knacker 
with  a  view  to  their  future  restoration  to  good  condition, 
and,  in  spite  of  all  the  arguments  of  the  opposite  side,  had 
carried  his  point. 

The  Elector,  ringing  the  bell,  said,  * '  No  matter ;  it  is  of 
no  importance,"  and  turning  around  again  toward  the 
Prince  asked  indifferently  how  other  things  were  going  in 
Dresden  and  what  had  occurred  during  his  absence.  Then, 
incapable  of  hiding  his  inner  state  of  mind,  he  saluted  him 
with  a  wave  of  the  hand  and  dismissed  him. 

That  very  same  day  the  Elector  sent  him  a  written  de- 
mand for  all  the  official  documents  concerning  Kohlhaas, 
under  the  pretext  that,  on  account  of  the  political  impoi-t- 
ance  of  the  affair,  he  wished  to  go  over  it  himself.  As  he 
could  not  bear  to  think  of  destroying  the  man  from  whom 


MICHAEL  KOHLHAAS  399 

alone  he  could  receive  information  concerning  the  secrets 
contained  in  the  paper,  he  composed  an  autograph  letter 
to  the  Emperor;  in  this  he  affectionately  and  urgently  re- 
quested that,  for  weighty  reasons,  which  possibly  he  would 
explain  to  him  in  greater  detail  after  a  little  while,  he  be 
allowed  to  withdraw  for  a  time,  until  a  further  decision  had 
been  reached,  the  complaint  which  Eibenmaier  had  entered 
against  Kohlhaas. 

The  Emperor,  in  a  note  drawn  up  by  the  State  Chancery, 
replied  that  the  change  which  seemed  suddenly  to  have 
taken  place  in  the  Elector's  mind  astonished  him  exceed- 
ingly; that  the  report  which  had  been  furnished  him  on 
the  part  of  Saxony  had  made  the  Kohlhaas  affair  a  matter 
which  concerned  the  entire  Holy  Roman  Empire;  that,  in 
consequence,  he,  the  Emperor,  as  head  of  the  same,  had 
felt  it  his  duty  to  appear  before  the  house  of  Brandenburg 
in  this,  as  plaintiff  in  this  affair,  and  that,  therefore,  since 
the  Emperor's  counsel,  Franz  Miiller,  had  gone  to  Berlin 
in  the  capacity  of  attorney  in  order  to  call  Kohlhaas  to 
account  for  the  violation  of  the  public  peace,  the  complaint 
could  in  no  wise  be  withdrawn  now  and  the  affair  must 
take  its  course  in  conformity  .with  the  law. 

This  letter  completely  crushed  the  Elector  and,  to  his 
utter  dismay,  private  communications  from  Berlin  reached 
him  a  short  time  after,  announcing  the  institution  of  the 
lawsuit  before  the  Supreme  Court  at  Berlin  and  containing 
the  remark  that  Kohlhaas,  in  spite  of  all  the  efforts  of  the 
lawyer  assigned  him,  would  in  all  probability  end  on  the 
scaffold.  The  unhappy  sovereign  determined,  therefore, 
to  make  one  more  effort,  and  in  an  autograph  letter  begged 
the  Elector  of  Brandenburg  to  spare  Kohlhaas*  life.  He 
alleged  as  pretext  that  the  amnesty  solemnly  promised  to 
this  man  did  not  lawfully  permit  the  execution  of  a  death 
sentence  upon  him ;  he  assured  the  Elector  that,  in  spite  of 
the  apparent  severity  with  which  Kohlhaas  had  been 
treated  in  Saxony,  it  had  never  been  his  intention  to  allow 
the  latter  to  die,  and  described  how  wretched  he  should  be 


400  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

if  the  protection  which  they  had  pretended  to  be  willing 
to  afford  the  man  from  Berlin  should,  by  an  unexpected 
turn  of  affairs,  prove  in  the  end  to  be  more  detrimental 
to  him  than  if  he  had  remained  in  Dresden  and  his  affair 
had  been  decided  according  to  the  laws  of  Saxony. 

The  Elector  of  Brandenburg,  to  whom  much  of  this  decla- 
ration seemed  ambiguous  and  obscure,  answered  that  the 
energy  with  which  the  attorney  of  his  Majesty  the  Emperor 
was  proceeding  made  it  absolutely  out  of  the  question  for 
him  to  conform  to  the  wish  expressed  by  the  Elector  of  Sax- 
ony and  depart  from  the  strict  precepts  of  the  law.  He  re- 
marked that  the  solicitude  thus  displayed  really  went  too 
far,  inasmuch  as  the  complaint  against  Kohlhaas  on  account 
of  the  crimes  which  had  been  pardoned  in  the  amnesty  had, 
as  a  matter  of  fact,  not  been  entered  at  the  Supreme  Court 
at  Berlin  by  him,  the  sovereign  who  had  granted  the 
amnesty,  but  by  the  supreme  head  of  the  Empire  who  was 
in  no  wise  bound  thereby.  At  the  same  time  he  represented 
to  him  how  necessary  it  was  to  make  a  fearful  example  of 
Kohlhaas  in  view  of  the  continued  outrages  of  Nagel- 
schmidt,  who  with  unheard-of  boldness  was  already  extend- 
ing his  depredations  as  far  as  Brandenburg,  and  begged 
him,  in  case  he  refused  to  be  influenced  by  these  consider- 
ations, to  apply  to  His  Majesty  the  Emperor  himself,  since, 
if  a  decree  was  to  be  issued  in  favor  of  Kohlhaas,  this  could 
only  be  rendered  after  a  declaration  on  his  Majesty's  part. 

The  Elector  fell  ill  again  with  grief  and  vexation  over 
all  these  unsuccessful  attempts,  and  one  morning,  when  the 
Chamberlain  came  to  pay  him  a  visit,  he  showed  him  the 
letters  which  he  had  written  to  the  courts  of  Vienna  and 
Berlin  in  the  effort  to  prolong  Kohlhaas'  life  and  thus  at 
least  gain  time  in  which  to  get  possession  of  the  paper  in 
the  latter 's  hands.  The  Chamberlain  threw  himself  on  his 
knees  before  him  and  begged  him  by  all  that  he  held  sacred 
and  dear  to  tell  him  what  this  paper  contained.  The  Elector 
bade  him  bolt  the  doors  of  the  room  and  sit  down  on  the 
bed  beside  him,  and  after  he  had  grasped  his  hand  and, 


MICHAEL  KOHLHAAS  401 

with  a  sigh,  pressed  it  to  his  heart,  he  began  as  follows: 
**  Your  wife,  as  I  hear,  has  already  told  you  that  the  Elector 
of  Brandenburg  and  I,  on  the  third  day  of  the  conference 
that  we  held  at  Jiiterbock,  came  upon  a  gipsy,  and  the 
Elector,  lively  as  he  is  by  nature,  determined  to  destroy  by 
a  jest  in  the  presence  of  all  the  people  the  fame  of  this 
fantastic  woman,  whose  art  had,  inappropriately  enough, 
just  been  the  topic  of  conversation  at  dinner.  He  walked 
up  to  her  table  with  his  arms  crossed  and  demanded  from 
her  a  sign  —  one  that  could  be  put  to  the  test  that  very  day 
—  to  prove  the  truth  of  the  fortune  she  was  about  to  tell 
him,  pretending  that,  even  if  she  were  the  Roman  Sibyl 
herself,  he  could  not  believe  her  words  without  it.  The 
woman,  hastily  taking  our  measure  from  head  to  foot,  said 
that  the  sign  would  be  that,  even  before  we  should  leave, 
the  big  horned  roebuck  which  the  gardener's  son  was  rais- 
ing in  the  park,  would  come  to  meet  us  in  the  market-place 
where  we  were  standing  at  that  moment.  Now  you  must 
know  that  this  roebuck,  which  was  destined  for  the  Dresden 
kitchen,  was  kept  behind  lock  and  key  in  an  inclosure  fenced 
in  with  high  boards  and  shaded  by  the  oak-trees  of  the 
park;  and  since,  moreover,  on  account  of  other  smaller 
game  and  birds,  the  park  in  general  and  also  the  garden 
leading  to  it,  were  kept  carefully  locked,  it  was  absolutely 
impossible  to  understand  how  the  animal  could  carry  out 
this  strange  prediction  and  come  to  meet  us  in  the  square 
where  we  were  standing.  Nevertheless  the  Elector,  afraid 
that  some  trick  might  be  behind  it  and  determined  for  the 
sake  of  the  joke  to  give  the  lie  once  and  for  all  to  everything 
else  that  she  might  say,  sent  to  the  castle,  after  a  short 
consultation  mth  me,  and  ordered  that  the  roebuck  be 
instantly  killed  and  prepared  for  the  table  within  the  next 
few  days.  Then  he  turned  back  to  the  woman  before  whom 
this  matter  had  been  transacted  aloud,  and  said,  *  Well,  go 
ahead!  What  have  you  to  disclose  to  me  of  the  future? ' 
The  woman,  looking  at  his  hanij,  said,  '  Hail,  my  Elector 
and  Sovereign !  Your  Grace  will  reign  for  a  long  time,  the 
Vol.  IV  — 26 


402  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

house  from  which  you  spring  will  long  endure,  and  your 
descendants  will  be  great  and  glorious  and  will  come  to 
exceed  in  power  all  the  other  princes  and  sovereigns  of  the 
world. ' 

''  The  Elector,  after  a  pause  in  which  he  looked  thought- 
fully at  the  woman,  said  in  an  undertone,  as  he  took  a  step 
toward  me,  that  he  was  almost  sorry  now  that  he  had  sent 
off  a  messenger  to  ruin  the  prophecy ;  and  while  amid  loud 
rejoicing  the  money  rained  down  in  heaps  into  the  woman's 
lap  from  the  hands  of  the  knights  who  followed  the  Elector, 
the  latter,  after  feeling  in  his  pocket  and  adding  a  gold 
piece  on  his  own  account,  asked  if  the  salutation  which  she 
was  about  to  reveal  to  me  also  had  such  a  silvery  sound  as 
his.  The  woman  opened  a  box  that  stood  beside  her  and  in 
a  leisurely,  precise  way  arranged  the  money  in  it  accord- 
ing to  kind  and  quantity;  then  she  closed  it  again,  shaded 
her  eyes  with  her  hand  as  if  the  sun  annoyed  her,  and 
looked  at  me.  I  repeated  the  question  I  had  asked  her  and, 
while  she  examined  my  hand,  I  added  jokingly  to  the 
Elector,  *  To  me,  so  it  seems,  she  has  nothing  really  agree- 
able to  announce !  '  At  that  she  seized  her  crutches,  raised 
herself  slowly  with  their  aid  from  her  stool,  and,  pressing 
close  to  me  with  her  hands  held  before  her  mysteriously, 
she  whispered  audibly  in  my  ear,  *  No ! '  *  Is  that  so  ?  '  I 
asked  confused,  and  drew  back  a  step  before  the  figure, 
who  with  a  look  cold  and  lifeless  as  though  from  eyes  of 
marble,  seated  herself  once  more  on  the  stool  behind  her; 

*  from  what  quarter  does  danger  menace  my  house? '  The 
woman,  taking  a  piece  of  charcoal  and  a  paper  in  her  hand 
and  crossing  her  knees,  asked  whether  she  should  write  it 
down  for  me;  and  as  I,  really  embarrassed,  though  only 
because  under  the  existing  circumstances  there  was  nothing 
else  for  me  to  do,  answered,  '  Yes,  do  so,'  she  replied, 

*  Very  well !  Three  things  I  will  write  down  for  you  —  the 
name  of  the  last  ruler  of  your  house,  the  year  in  which  he 
mil  lose  his  throne,  and  the  name  of  the  man  who  through 
the  power  of  arms  will  seize  it  for  himself,'    Having  done 


MICHAEL  KOHLHAAS  403 

this  before  the  eyes  of  all  the  people  she  arose,  sealed  the 
paper  with  a  wafer,  which  she  moistened  in  her  withered 
mouth,  and  pressed  upon  it  a  leaden  seal  ring  which  she 
wore  on  her  middle  finger.  And  as  I,  curious  beyond  all 
words,  as  you  can  well  imagine,  was  about  to  seize  the 
paper,  she  said,  '  Not  so.  Your  Highness !  '  and  turned  and 
raised  one  of  her  crutches ;  '  from  that  man  there,  the  one 
with  the  plumed  hat,  standing  on  the  bench  at  the  entrance 
of  the  church  behind  all  the  people  —  from  him  you  shall 
redeem  it,  if  it  so  please  you !  '  And  with  these  words, 
before  I  had  clearly  grasped  what  she  was  saying,  she  left 
me  standing  in  the  square,  speechless  with  astonishment, 
and,  clapping  shut  the  box  that  stood  behind  her  and 
slinging  it  over  her  back,  she  disappeared  in  the  crowd  of 
people  surrounding  us,  so  that  I  could  no  longer  watch  what 
she  was  doing.  But  at  this  moment,  to  my  great  consola- 
tion, I  must  admit,  there  appeared  the  knight  whom  the 
Elector  had  sent  to  the  castle,  and  reported,  with  a  smile 
hovering  on  his  lips,  that  the  roebuck  had  been  killed  and 
dragged  off  to  the  kitchen  by  two  hunters  before  his  very 
eyes.  The  Elector,  gaily  placing  his  arm  in  mine  with  the 
intenti\Dn  of  leading  me  away  from  the  square,  said,  '  Well 
then,  the  prophecy  was  a  commonplace  swindle  and  not 
worth  the  time  and  money  which  it  has  cost  us ! '  But  how 
great  was  our  astonishment  when,  even  before  he  had 
finished  speaking,  a  cry  went  up  around  the  whole  square, 
and  the  eyes  of  all  turned  toward  a  large  butcher's  dog 
trotting  along  from  the  castle  yard.  In  the  kitchen  he  had 
seized  the  roebuck  by  the  neck  as  a  fair  prize,  and,  pursued 
by  men-servants  and  maids,  dropped  the  animal  on  the 
ground  three  paces  in  front  of  us.  Thus  indeed  the 
woman's  prophecy,  which  was  the  pledge  for  the  truth  of 
all  that  she  had  uttered,  was  fulfilled,  and  the  roebuck, 
although  dead  to  be  sure,  had  come  to  the  market-place  to 
meet  us.  The  lightning  which  falls  from  heaven  on  a 
winter's  day  cannot  annihilate  more  completely  than  this 
sight  did  me,  and  my  first  endeavor,  as  soon  as  I  had 


404  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

excused  myself  from  the  company  which  surrounded  me, 
was  to  discover  immediately  the  whereabouts  of  the  man 
with  the  plumed  hat  whom  the  woman  had  pointed  out  to 
me ;  but  none  of  my  people,  though  sent  out  on  a  three  days ' 
continuous  search,  could  give  me  even  the  remotest  kind  of 
information  concerning  him.  And  then,  friend  Kunz,  a  few 
weeks  ago  in  the  farm-house  at  Dahme,  I  saw  the  man  with 
my  own  eyes !  ' ' 

With  these  words  he  let  go  of  the  Chamberlain's  hand 
and,  wiping  away  the  perspiration,  sank  back  again  on  the 
couch.  The  Chamberlain,  who  considered  it  a  waste  of 
effort  to  attempt  to  contradict  the  Elector's  opinion  of  the 
incident  or  to  try  to  make  him  adopt  his  own  view  of  the 
matter,  begged  him  by  all  means  to  try  to  get  possession 
of  the  paper  and  afterward  to  leave  the  fellow  to  his  fate. 
But  the  Elector  answered  that  he  saw  absolutely  no  way  of 
doing  so,  although  the  thought  of  having  to  do  without  it  or 
perhaps  even  seeing  all  knowledge  of  it  perish  with  this 
man,  brought  him  to  the  verge  of  misery  and  despair. 
When  asked  by  his  friend  whether  he  had  made  any 
attempts  to  discover  the  person  of  the  gipsy-woman  herself, 
the  Elector  replied  that  the  Government  Office,  in  conse- 
quence of  an  order  which  he  had  issued  under  a  false  pre- 
text, had  been  searching  in  vain  for  this  woman  throughout 
the  Electorate;  in  view  of  these  facts,  for  reasons,  how- 
ever, which  he  refused  to  explain  in  detail,  he  doubted 
whether  she  could  ever  be  discovered  in  Saxony. 

Now  it  happened  that  the  Chamberlain  wished  to  go  to 
Berlin  on  account  of  several  considerable  pieces  of  prop- 
erty in  the  Neumark  of  Brandenburg  which  his  wife  had 
fallen  heir  to  from  the  estate  of  the  Arch-Chancellor,  Count 
Kallheim,  who  had  died  shortly  after  being  deposed.  As 
Sir  Kunz  really  loved  the  Elector,  he  asked,  after  reflecting 
for  a  short  time,  whether  the  latter  would  leave  the  matter 
to  his  discretion;  and  when  his  master,  pressing  his  hand 
affectionately  to  his  breast,  answered,  ''  Imagine  that  you 
are  myself,  and  secure  the  paper  for  me !  "  the  Chamber- 


MICHAEL  KOHLHAAS  405 

lain  turned  over  his  affairs  to  a  subordinate,  hastened  his 
departure  by  several  days,  left  his  wife  behind,  and  set  out 
for  Berlin,  accompanied  only  by  a  few  servants. 

Kohlhaas,  as  we  have  said,  had  meanwhile  arrived  in 
Berlin,  and  by  special  order  of  the  Elector  of  Brandenburg 
had  been  placed  in  a  prison  for  nobles,  where,  together  with 
his  five  children,  he  was  made  as  comfortable  as  circum- 
stances permitted.  Immediately  after  the  appearance  of 
the  Imperial  attorney  from  Vienna  the  horse-dealer- was 
called  to  account  before  the  bar  of  the  Supreme  Court  for 
the  violation  of  the  public  peace  proclaimed  throughout  the 
Empire,  and  although  in  his  answer  he  objected  that,  by 
virtue  of  the  agreement  concluded  with .  the  Elector  of 
Saxony  at  Liitzen,  he  could  not  be  prosecuted  for  the  armed 
invasion  of  that  country  and  the  acts  of  violence  committed 
at  that  time,  he  was  nevertheless  told  for  his  information 
that  His  Majesty  the  Emperor,  whose  attorney  was  making 
the  complaint  in  this  case,  could  not  take  that  into  account. 
And  indeed,  after  the  situation  had  been  explained  to  him 
and  he  had  been  told  that,  to  offset  this,  complete  satisfac- 
tion would  be  rendered  to  him  in  Dresden  in  his  suit  against 
Squire  Wenzel  Tronka,  he  very  soon  acquiesced  in  the 
matter.  1 

Thus  it  happened  that,  precisely  on  the  day  of  the  arrival        I      _. 
of  the  Chamberlain,  judgment  was  pronounced,  and  Kohl-  t 

haas  was  condemned  to  lose  his  life  by  the  sword,  which 
sentence,  however,  in  the  complicated  state  of  affairs,  no 

one  believed  would  be  carried  out,  in  spite  of  its  mercy.    i 

Indeed  the  whole  city,  knowing  the  good  will  which  the 
Elector  bore  Kohlhaas,  confidently  hoped  to  see  it  com- 
muted by  an  electoral  decree  to  a  mere,  though  possibly 
long  and  severe,  term  of  imprisonment. 

The  Chamberlain,  who  nevertheless  realized  that  no  time 
was  to  be  lost  if  the  commission  given  him  by  his  master 
was  to  be  accomplished,  set  about  his  business  by  giving 
Kohlhaas  an  opportunity  to  get  a  good  look  at  him,  dressed 
as  he  was  in  his  ordinary  court  costume,  one  morning  when 


406  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

the  horse-dealer  was  standing  at  the  window  of  his  prison 
innocently  gazing  at  the  passers-by.  As  he  concluded  from 
a  sudden  movement  of  his  head  that  he  had  noticed  him,  and 
with  great  pleasure  observed  particularly  that  he  put  his 
hand  involuntarily  to  that  part  of  the  chest  where  the  locket 
was  lying,  he  considered  that  what  had  taken  place  at  that 
moment  in  Kohlhaas'  soul  was  a  sufficient  preparation  to 
allow  him  to  go  a  step  further  in  the  attempt  to  gain  pos- 
session of  the  paper.  He  therefore  sent  for  an  old  woman 
who  hobbled  around  on  crutches,  selling  old  clothes ;  he  had 
noticed  her  in  the  streets  of  Berlin  among  a  crowd  of  other 
rag-pickers,  and  in  age  and  costume  she  seemed  to  him  to 
correspond  fairly  well  to  the  woman  described  to  him  by 
the  Elector  of  Saxony.  On  the  supposition  that  Kohlhaas 
probably  had  not  fixed  very  deeply  in  mind  the  features  of 
the  old  gipsy,  of  whom  he  had  had  but  a  fleeting  vision  as 
she  handed  him  the  paper,  he  determined  to  substitute  the 
aforesaid  woman  for  her  and,  if  it  were  practicable,  to  have 
her  act  the  part  of  the  gipsy  before  Kohlhaas.  In  accord- 
ance with  this  plan  and  in  order  to  fit  her  for  the  role,  he 
informed  her  in  detail  of  all  that  had  taken  place  in  Jiiter- 
bock  between  the  Elector  and  the  gipsy,  and,  as  he  did  not 
know  how  far  the  latter  had  gone  in  her  declarations  to 
Kohlhaas,  he  did  not  forget  to  impress  particularly  upon 
the  woman  the  three  mysterious  items  contained  in  the 
paper.  After  he  had  explained  to  her  what  she  must  dis- 
close in  disconnected  and  incoherent  fashion,  about  certain 
measures  which  had  been  taken  to  get  possession,  either  by 
strategy  or  by  force,  of  this  paper  which  was  of  the  utmost 
importance  to  the  Saxon  court,  he  charged  her  to  demand 
of  Kohlhaas  that  he  should  give  the  paper  to  her  to  keep 
during  a  few  fateful  days,  on  the  pretext  that  it  was  no 
longer  safe  with  him. 

As  was  to  be  expected,  the  woman  undertook  the  execu- 
tion of  this  business  at  once  on  the  promise  of  a  consider- 
able reward,  a  part  of  which  the  Chamberlain,  at  her 
demand,  had  to  pay  over  to  her  in  advance.    As  the  mother 


MICHAEL  KOHLHAAS  407 

of  Herse,  the  groom  who  had  fallen  at  Miihlberg,  had  per- 
mission from  the  government  to  visit  Kohlhaas  at  times, 
and  this  woman  had  already  known  her  for  several  months, 
she  succeeded  a  few  days  later  in  gaining  access  to  the 
horse-dealer  by  means  of  a  small  gratuity  to  the  warden. 

But  when  the  woman  entered  his  room,  Kohlhaas,  from 
a  seal  ring  that  she  wore  on  her  hand  and  a  coral  chain 
that  hung  round  her  neck,  thought  that  he  recognized  in 
her  the  very  same  old  gipsy-woman  who  had  handed  him  the 
paper  in  Jiiterbock ;  and  since  probability  is  not  always  on 
the  side  of  truth,  it  so  happened  that  here  something  had 
occurred  which  we  will  indeed  relate,  but  at  the  same  time, 
to  those  who  wish  to  question  it  we  must  accord  full  liberty 
to  do  so.  The  Chamberlain  had  made  the  most  colossal 
blunder,  and  in  the  aged  old-clothes  woman,  whom  he  had 
picked  up  in  the  streets  of  Berlin  to  impersonate  the  gipsy, 
he  had  hit  upon  the  very  same  mysterious  gipsy-woman 
whom  he  wished  to  have  impersonated.  At  least,  while 
leaning  on  her  crutches  and  stroking  the  cheeks  of  the 
children  who,  intimidated  by  her  singular  appearance,  were 
pressing  close  to  their  father,  the  woman  informed  the 
latter  that  she  had  returned  to  Brandenburg  from  Saxony 
some  time  before,  and  that  after  an  unguarded  question 
which  the  Chamberlain  had  hazarded  in  the  streets  of 
Berlin  about  the  gipsy-woman  who  had  been  in  Jiiterbock 
in  the  spring  of  the  previous  year,  she  had  immediately 
pressed  forward  to  him,  and  under  a  false  name  had  offered 
herself  for  the  business  which  he  wished  to  see  done. 

The  horse-dealer  remarked  such  a  strange  likeness  be- 
tween her  and  his  dead  wife  Lisbeth  that  he  might  have 
asked  the  old  woman  whether  she  were  his  wife's  grand- 
mother ;  for  not  only  did  her  features  and  her  hands  —  with 
fingers  still  shapely  and  beautiful  —  and  especially  the  use 
she  made  of  them  when  speaking,  remind  him  vividly  of 
Lisbeth;  he  even  noticed  on  her  neck  a  mole  like  one  with 
which  his  wife 's  neck  was  marked.  With  his  thoughts  in  a 
strange  whirl  he  urged,  the  gipsy  to  sit  down  on  a  chair 


408  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

and  asked  what  it  could  possibly  be  that  brought  her  to 
him  on  business  for  the  Chamberlain. 

While  Kohlhaas'  old  dog  snuffed  around  her  knees  and 
wagged  his  tail  as  she  gently  patted  his  head,  the  woman 
answered  that  she  had  been  commissioned  by  the  Chamber- 
lain to  inform  him  what  the  three  questions  of  importance 
for  the  Court  of  Saxony  were,  to  which  the  paper  contained 
the  mysterious  answer;  to  warn  him  of  a  messenger  who 
was  then  in  Berlin  for  the  purpose  of  gaining  possession 
of  it;  and  to  demand  the  paper  from  him  on  the  pretext 
that  it  was  no  longer  safe  next  his  heart  where  he  was 
carrying  it.  She  said  that  the  real  purpose  for  which  she 
had  come,  however,  was  to  tell  him  that  the  threat  to  get 
the  paper  away  from  him  by  strategy  or  by  force  was  an 
absurd  and  empty  fraud;  that  under  the  protection  of  the 
Elector  of  Brandenburg,  in  whose  custody  he  was,  he  need 
not  have  the  least  fear  for  its  safety;  that  the  paper  was 
indeed  much  safer  with  him  than  with  her,  and  that  he 
should  take  good  care  not  to  lose  possession  of  it  by  giving 
it  up  to  any  one,  no  matter  on  what  pretext.  Nevertheless, 
she  concluded,  she  considered  it  would  be  wise  to  use  the 
paper  for  the  purpose  for  which  she  had  given  it  to  him 
at  the  fair  in  Jiiterbock,  to  lend  a  favorable  ear  to  the  offer 
which  had  been  made  to  him  on  the  frontier  through  Squire 
Stein,  and  in  return  for  life  and  liberty  to  surrender  the 
paper,  which  could  be  of  no  further  use  to  him,  to  the 
Elector  of  Saxony. 

Kohlhaas,  who  was  exulting  over  the  power  which  was 
thus  afforded  him  to  wound  the  heel  of  his  enemy  mortally 
at  the  very  moment  when  it  was  treading  him  in  the  dust, 
made  answer,  ''  Not  for  the  world,  grandam,  not  for  the 
world!  "  He  pressed  the  old  woman's  hand  warmly  and 
only  asked  to  know  what  sort  of  answers  to  the  tre- 
mendous questions  were  contained  in  the  paper.  Taking 
on  her  lap  the  youngest  child,  who  had  crouched  at  her  feet, 
the  woman  said,  *'  Not  for  the  world,  Kohlhaas  the  horse- 
dealer,  but  for  this  pretty,  fair-haired  little  lad!  "  and  with 


MICHAEL  KOHLHAAS  409 

that  she  laughed  softly  at  the  child,  petted  and  kissed  him 
while  he  stared  at  her  in  wide-eyed  surprise,  and  with  her 
withered  hands  gave  him  an  apple  which  she  had  in  her 
pocket.  Kohlhaas  answered,  in  some  confusion,  that  the 
children  themselves,  when  they  were  grown,  would  approve 
his  conduct,  and  that  he  could  do  nothing  of  greater  benefit 
to  them  and  their  grandchildren  than  to  keep  the  paper. 
He  asked,  furthermore,  who  would  insure  him  against  a 
new  deception  after  the  experience  he  had  been  through, 
and  whether,  in  the  end,  he  would  not  be  making  a  vain 
sacrifice  of  the  paper  to  the  Elector,  as  had  lately  happened 
in  the  case  of  the  band  of  troops  which  he  had  collected  in 
Liitzen.  "  If  I've  once  caught  a  man  breaking  his  word," 
said  he,  ' '  I  never  exchange  another  with  him ;  and  nothing 
but  your  command,  positive  and  unequivocal,  shall  separate 
me,  good  grandam,  from  this  paper  through  which  I  have 
been  granted  satisfaction  in  such  a  wonderful  fashion  for 
all  I  have  suffered. ' ' 

The  woman  set  the  child  down  on  the  floor  again  and  said 
that  in  many  respects  he  was  right,  and  that  he  could  do  or 
leave  undone  what  he  wished;  and  with  that  she  took  up 
her  crutches  again  and  started  to  go.  Kohlhaas  repeated 
his  question  regarding  the  contents  of  the  wonderful  paper ; 
she  answered  hastily  that,  of  course,  he  could  open  it, 
although  it  would  be  pure  curiosity  on  his  part.  He  wished 
to  find  out  about  a  thousand  other  things  yet,  before  she 
left  him  —  who  she  really  was,  how  she  came  by  the  knowl- 
edge resident  within  her,  why  she  had  refused  to  give  the 
magic  paper  to  the  Elector  for  whom  it  had  been  written 
after  all,  and  among  so  many  thousand  people  had  handed 
it  precisely  to  him,  Kohlhaas,  who  had  never  consulted  her 
art. 

Now  it  happened  that,  just  at  that  moment,  a  noise  was 
heard,  caused  by  several  police  officials  who  were  mounting 
the  stairway,  so  that  the  woman,  seized  with  sudden  appre- 
hension at  being  found  by  them  in  these  quarters,  exclaimed, 
**  Good-by  for  the  present,  Kohlhaas,  good-by  for  the  pres- 


410  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

ent.  When  we  meet  again  you  shall  not  lack  information 
concerning  all  these  things. ' '  With  that  she  turned  toward 
the  door,  crying,  ' '  Farewell,  children,  farewell ! ' '  Then 
she  kissed  the  little  folks  one  after  the  other,  and  went  off. 
In  the  mean  time  the  Elector  of  Saxony,  abandoned  to  his 
wretched  thoughts,  had  called  in  two  astrologers.  Olden- 
holm  and  Olearius  by  name,  who  at  that  time  enjoyed  a 
great  reputation  in  Saxony,  and  had  asked  their  advice  con- 
cerning the  mysterious  paper  which  was  of  such  importance 
to  him  and  all  his  descendants.  After  making  a  profound 
investigation  of  several  days'  duration  in  the  tower  of  the 
Dresden  palace,  the  men  could  not  agree  as  to  whether  the 
prophecy  referred  to  remote  centuries  or,  perhaps,  to  the 
present  time,  with  a  possible  reference  to  the  King  of 
Poland,  with  whom  the  relations  were  still  of  a  very  war- 
like nature.  The  disquietude,  not  to  say  the  despair,  in 
which  the  unhappy  sovereign  was  plunged,  was  only  in- 
creased by  such  learned  disputes,  and  finally  was  so  inten- 
sified as  to  seem  to  his  soul  wholly  intolerable.  In  addition, 
just  at  this  time  the  Chamberlain  charged  his  wife  that 
before  she  left  for  Berlin,  whither  she  was  about  to  follow 
him,  she  should  adroitly  inform  the  Elector,  that,  after  the 
failure  of  an  attempt,  which  he  had  made  with  the  help  of 
an  old  woman  who  had  kept  out  of  sight  ever  since,  there 
was  but  slight  hope  of  securing  the  paper  in  Kohlhaas' 
possession,  inasmuch  as  the  death  sentence  pronounced 
against  the  horse-dealer  had  now  at  last  been  signed  by  the 
Elector  of  Brandenburg  after  a  minute  examination  of  all 
the  legal  documents,  and  the  day  of  execution  already  set 
for  the  Monday  after  Palm  Sunday.  At  this  news  the 
Elector,  his  heart  torn  by  grief  and  remorse,  shut  himself 
up  in  his  room  like  a  man  in  utter  despair  and,  tired  of  life, 
refused  for  two  days  to  take  food ;  on  the  third  day  he  sud- 
denly disappeared  from  Dresden  after  sending  a  short 
communication  to  the  Government  Office  with  word  that  he 
was  going  to  the  Prince  of  Dessau's  to  hunt. 


MICHAEL  KOHLHAAS  411 

Where  he  actually  did  go  and  whether  he  did  wend  his 
way  toward  Dessau,  we  shall  not  undertake  to  say,  as  the 
chronicles  —  which  we  have  diligently  compared  before 
reporting  events  —  at  this  point  contradict  and  offset  one 
another  in  a  very  peculiar  manner.  So  much  is  certain :  the 
Prince  of  Dessau  was  incapable  of  hunting,  as  he  was  at 
this  time  lying  ill  in  Brunswick  at  the  residence  of  his  uncle, 
Duke  Henry,  and  it  is  also  certain  that  Lady  Heloise  on 
the  evening  of  the  following  day  arrived  in  Berlin  at  the 
house  of  her  husband,  Sir  Kunz,  the  Chamberlain,  in  the 
company  of  a  certain  Count  von  Konigstein  whom  she  gave 
out  to  be  her  cousin. 

In  the  mean  time,  on  the  order  of  the  Elector  of  Branden- 
burg, the  death  sentence  was  read  to  Kohlhaas,  his  chains 
were  removed,  and  the  papers  concerning  his  property,  to 
which  papers  his  right  had  been  denied  in  Dresden,  were 
returned  to  him.  When  the  councilors  whom  the  court  had 
dispatched  to  him  asked  what  disposition  he  wished  to  have 
made  of  his  property  after  his  death,  with  the  help  of  a 
notary  he  made  out  a  will  in  favor  of  his  children  and 
appointed  his  honest  friend,  the  bailiff  at  Kohlhaasenbriick, 
to  be  their  guardian.  After  that,  nothing  could  match  the 
peace  and  contentment  of  his  last  days.  For  in  consequence 
of  a  singular  decree  extraordinary  issued  by  the  Elector, 
the  prison  in  which  he  was  kept  was  soon  after  thrown 
open  and  free  entrance  was  allowed  day  and  night  to  all  his 
friends,  of  whom  he  possessed  a  great  many  in  the  city. 
He  even  had  the  further  satisfaction  of  seeing  the  theo- 
logian, Jacob  Freising,  enter  his  prison  as  a  messenger 
from  Dr.  Luther,  with  a  letter  from  the  latter 's  own  hand 
—  without  doubt  a  very  remarkable  document  which,  how- 
ever, has  since  been  lost  —  and  of  receiving  the  blessed 
Holy  Communion  at  the  hands  of  this  reverend  gentleman 
in  the  presence  of  two  deans  of  Brandenburg,  who  assisted 
him  in  administering  it. 

Amid  general  commotion  in  the  city,  which  could  not  even 
yet  be  weaned  from  the  hope  of  seeing  him  saved  by  an  elec- 


412  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

toral  rescript,  there  now  dawned  the  fateful  Monday  after 
Palm  Sunday,  on  which  Kolilhaas  was  to  make  atonement 
to  the  world  for  the  all-too-rash  attempt  to  procure  justice 
for  himself  within  it.  Accompanied  by  a  strong  guard 
and  conducted  by  the  theologian,  Jacob  Freising,  he  was 
just  leaving  the  gate  of  his  prison  with  his  two  lads  in 
his  arms  —  for  this  favor  he  had  expressly  requested 
at  the  bar  of  the  court  —  when  among  a  sorrowful 
throng  of  acquaintances,  who  were  pressing  his  hands 
in  farewell,  there  stepped  up  to  him,  with  haggard  face, 
the  castellan  of  the  Elector's  palace,  and  gave  him  a 
paper  which  he  said  an  old  woman  had  put  in  his  hands 
for  him.  The  latter,  looking  in  surprise  at  the  man, 
whom  he  scarcely  knew,  opened  the  paper.  The  seal 
pressed  upon  the  wafer  had  reminded  him  at  once  of  the 
frequently  mentioned  gipsy-woman,  but  who  can  describe 
the  astonishment  w^hich  filled  him  when  he  found  the  fol- 
lowing information  contained  in  it:  '' Kohlhaas,  the 
Elector  of  Saxony  is  in  Berlin ;  he  has  already  preceded  you 
to  the  place  of  execution,  and,  if  you  care  to  know,  can  be 
recognized  by  a  hat  with  blue  and  white  plumes.  The  pur- 
pose for  which  he  comes  I  do  not  need  to  tell  you.  He 
intends,  as  soon  as  you  are  buried,  to  have  the  locket  dug 
up  and  the  paper  in  it  opened  and  read.    Your  Lisbeth. " 

Kohlhaas  turned  to  the  castellan  in  the  utmost  astonish- 
ment and  asked  him  if  he  knew  the  marvelous  woman  who 
had  given  him  the  note.  But  just  as  the  castellan  started 
to  answer  **  Kohlhaas,  the  woman — "  and  then  hesitated 
strangely  in  the  middle  of  his  sentence,  the  horse-dealer  was 
borne  away  by  the  procession  which  moved  on  again  at 
that  moment,  and  could  not  make  out  what  the  man,  who 
seemed  to  be  trembling  in  every  limb,  finally  uttered. 

When  Kohlhaas  arrived  at  the  place  of  execution  he 
found  there  the  Elector  of  Brandenburg  and  his  suite, 
among  whom  was  the  Arch-Chancellor,  Sir  Heinrich  von 
Geusau,  halting  on  horseback,  in  the  midst  of  an  innumer- 
able crowd  of  people.     On  the  sovereign's  right  was  the 


MICHAEL  KOHLHAAS  413 

Imperial  attorney,  Franz  Miiller,  with  a  copy  of  the  death 
sentence  in  his  hand ;  on  his  left  was  his  own  attorney,  the 
jurist  Anton  Zauner,  with  the  decree  of  the  Court  Tribunal 
at  Dresden.  In  the  middle  of  the  half  circle  formed  by  the 
people  stood  a  herald  with  a  bundle  of  articles,  and  the 
two  black  horses,  fat  and  glossy,  pawing  the  ground 
impatiently.  For  the  Arch-Chancellor,  Sir  Heinrich,  had 
won  the  suit  instituted  at  Dresden  in  the  name  of  his  master 
without  yielding  a  single  point  to  Squire  Wenzel  Tronka. 
After  the  horses  had  been  made  honorable  once  more  by 
having  a  banner  waved  over  their  heads,  and  taken  from 
the  knacker,  who  was  feeding  them,  they  had  been  fattened 
by  the  Squire's  servants  and  then,  in  the  market-place  in 
Dresden,  had  been  turned  over  to  the  attorney  in  the  pres- 
ence of  a  specially  appointed  commission.  Accordingly 
when  Kohlhaas,  accompanied  by  his  guard,  advanced  to  the 
mound  where  the  Elector  was  awaiting  him,  the  latter  said, 
''  Well,  Kohlhaas,  this  is  the  day  on  which  you  receive 
justice  that  is  your  due.  Look,  I  here  deliver  to  you  all 
that  was  taken  from  you  by  force  at  the  Tronka  Castle 
which  I,  as  your  sovereign,  was  bound  to  procure  for  you 
again;  here  are  the  black  horses,  the  neck-cloth,  the  gold 
gulden,  the  linen — everything  down  to  the  very  amount  of 
the  bill  for  medical  attention  furnished  your  groom,  Herse, 
who  fell  at  Miihlberg.    Are  you  satisfied  with  me?  " 

Kohlhaas  set  the  two  children  whom  he  was  carrying  in 
his  arms  down  on  the  ground  beside  him,  and  with  eyes 
sparkling  with  astonished  pleasure  read  the  decree  which 
was  handed  to  him  at  a  sign  from  the  Arch-Chancellor. 
When  he  also  found  in  it  a  clause  condemning  Squire 
Wenzel  Tronka  to  a  punishment  of  two  years'  imprison- 
ment, his  feelings  completely  overcame  him  and  he  sank 
down  on  his  knees  at  some  distance  from  the  Elector,  with 
his  hands  folded  across  his  breast.  Rising  and  laying  his 
hand  on  the  knee  of  the  Arch-Chancellor,  he  joyfully 
assured  him  that  his  dearest  wish  on  earth  had  been  ful- 
filled; then  he  walked  over  to  the  horses,  examined  them 


] 


414  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

and  patted  their  plump  necks,  and,  coming  back  to  the 
Chancellor,  declared  with  a  smile  that  he  was  going  to 
present  them  to  his  two  sons,  Henry  and  Leopold ! 

The  Chancellor,  Sir  Heinrich  von  Geusau,  looking  gra- 
ciously down  upon  him  from  his  horse,  promised  him  in  the 
name  of  the  Elector  that  his  last  wish  should  be  held  sacred 
and  asked  him  also  to  dispose  of  the  other  articles  con- 
tained in  the  bundle,  as  seemed  good  to  him.  Whereupon 
Kohlhaas  called  out  from  the  crowd  Herse's  old  mother, 
whom  he  had  caught  sight  of  in  the  square,  and,  giving  her 
the  things,  said,  '*  Here,  grandmother,  these  belong  to 
you!  "  The  indemnity  for  the  loss  of  Herse  was  with  the 
money  in  the  bundle,  and  this  he  presented  to  her  also,  as 
a  gift  to  provide  care  and  comfort  for  her  old  age.  The 
Elector  cried,  ''  Well,  Kohlhaas  the  horse-dealer,  now  that 
satisfaction  has  been  rendered  you  in  such  fashion,  do  you, 
for  your  part,  prepare  to  give  satisfaction  to  His  Majesty 
the  Emperor,  whose  attorney  is  standing  here,  for  the  viola- 
tion of  the  peace  he  had  proclaimed!  "  Taking  off  his  hat 
and  throwing  it  on  the  ground  Kohlhaas  said  that  he  was 
ready  to  do  so.  He  lifted  the  children  once  more  from  the 
ground  and  pressed  them  to  his  breast ;  then  he  gave  them 
over  to  the  bailiff  of  Kohlhaasenbriick,  and  while  the  latter, 
weeping  quietly,  led  them  away  from  the  square,  Kohlhaas 
advanced  to  the  block. 

He  was  just  removing  his  neck-cloth  and  baring  his  chest 
when,  throwing  a  hasty  glance  around  the  circle  formed 
by  the  crowd,  he  caught  sight  of  the  familiar  face  of  the 
man  with  blue  and  white  plumes,  who  was  standing  quite 
near  him  between  two  knights  whose  bodies  half  hid  him 
from  view.  With  a  sudden  stride  which  surprised  the  guard 
surrounding  him,  Kohlhaas  walked  close  up  to  the  man, 
untying  the  locket  from  around  his  neck  as  he  did  so.  He 
took  out  the  paper,  unsealed  it,  and  read  it  through;  then, 
without  moving  his  eyes  from  the  man  with  blue  and  white 
plumes,  who  was  already  beginning  to  indulge  in  sweet 
hopes,  he  stuck  the  paper  in  his  mouth  and  swallowed  it. 


MICHAEL  KOHLHAAS  415 

At  this  sight  the  man  with  blue  and  white  plumes  was 
seized  with  convulsions  and  sank  down  unconscious.  While 
his  companions  bent  over  him  in  consternation  and  raised 
him  from  the  ground,  Kohlhaas  turned  toward  the  scaffold, 
where  his  head  fell  under  the  axe  of  the  executioner. 

Here  ends  the  story  of  Kohlhaas.  Amid  the  general 
lamentations  of  the  people  his  body  was  placed  in  a  coffin, 
and  while  the  bearers  raised  it  from  the  ground  and  bore 
it  away  to  the  graveyard  in  the  suburbs  for  decent  burial, 
the  Elector  of  Brandenburg  called  to  liim  the  sons  of  the 
dead  man  and  dubbed  them  knights,  telling  the  Arch- 
Chancellor  that  he  wished  them  to  be  educated  in  his  school 
for  pages. 

The  Elector  of  Saxony,  shattered  in  body  and  mind, 
returned  shortly  afterward  to  Dresden ;  details  of  his  sub- 
sequent career  there  must  be  sought  in  history. 

Some  hale  and  happy  descendants  of  Kohlhaas,  however, 
were  still  living  in  Mecklenburg  in  the  last  century. 


THE  PRINCE  OF  HOMBURG 


DRAMATIS    PERSONS 


Fbedebiok  William,  Elector  of 
Brandenburg. 

The  Electbess. 

Pbincess  Natalie  of  Orange,  his 
niece,  Honorary  Colonel  of  a  regi- 
ment of  Dragoons. 

Fiexd-Marshal  Dokfling. 

Prince  Frederick  Arthur  of  Hom- 
BURG,   General  of  cavalry. 

Colonel  Kottwitz,  of  the  regiment 
of  the  Princess  of  Oramge. 

Hennings  ) 

Count  Tbuchsz{  ^^^*"*^2/  Colonels. 


Count  Hohenzollern,  of  the  Elect' 

or's  suite. 
von  deb  golz 
Count    Geobge    von 

Spabben 
Steanz  [Captains  of 

SiEGFBiED  VON  MoBNESt  cava  ry. 

Count  Reuss 
A  Sebgeant 
Officers.       Corporals     and     troopers. 

Ladies-    and    Gentlemen-in-waiting. 

Pages.    Lackeys.    Servants.    People 

of  both  sexes,  young  and  old. 
Time:    1675. 
[416] 


THE  PRINCE  OF  HOMBURG    (1810) 

By  Heinrich  von  Kleist 

TRANSLATED  BY  HERMANN  HAGEDORN,  A.B. 
Author  of  A  Troop  of  the  Guard  and  Other  Poems 

ACT   I 

Scene:  Fehrbellin.  A  garden  laid  out  in  the  old  French  style.  In  the 
background,  a  palace  with  a  terrace  from  which  a  broad  stair  descends. 
It  is  night. 

Scene  I 

The  Prince  of  Homburg  sits  xoith  head  bare  and  shirt  unbuttoned,  half- 
sleeping,  half  waking,  under  an  oak,  binding  a  wreath.  The  Elector, 
Electress,  Princess  Natalie,  Count  Hohenzollern,  Captain  Golz 
and  others  come  stealthily  out  of  the  palace  and  look  down  upon  him 
from  the  balustrade  of  the  terrace.     Pages  with  torches. 

[OHENZOLLEEN.     The   Prince   of  Homburg, 
our  most  valiant  cousin, 
Who  these  fjthree  days  has  pressed  the  flying 

Swedes 
Exultant  at  the  cavalry's  forefront, 
And  scant  of  breath  only  today  returned 
To  camp  at  Fehrbellin  —  your  order  said 
That  he  should  tarry  here  provisioning 
^Three  hours  at  most,  and  move  once  more 

apace 
Clear  to  the  Hackel  Hills  to  cope  with  Wrangel, 
Seeking  to  build  redoubts  beside  the  Ehyn? 
Electoe.         'Tis  so. 

HoHENzoLLEEN,  Now  haviug  charged  the  commandants 

Of  all  his  squadrons  to  depart  the  town 
Obedient  to  the  plan,  sharp  ten  at  night. 
He  flings  himself  exhausted  on  the  straw 
Like  a  hound  panting,  his  exhausted  limbs 
To  rest  a  little  while  against  the  fight 
Which  waits  us  at  the  glimmering  of  dawn. 
Electok.        I  heard  so!     Well? 

Vol.  IV  — 27  [417] 


418  THii:  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

HoHENzoLLEBN.  Now  when  the  hour  strikes 

And  in  the  stirrup  now  the  cavalry 
Expectant  paws  the  ground  before  the  gates  — 
Who  still  absents  himself?     The  Prince  of 

Homburg, 
Their  chief.    With  lights  they  seek  the  valiant 

man, 
With  torches,  lanterns,  and  they  find  him  — 
where  1 
[He  takes  a  torch  from  the  hand  of  a  page.] 
As  a  somnambulist,  look,  on  that  bench, 
Whither  in  sleep,  as  you  would  ne'er  believe, 
The  moonshine  lured  him,  vaguely  occupied 
Imagining  himself  posterity 

/■^^  ^  And  weaving  for  his  brow  the  crown  of  fame. 

Elector.        What ! 

HoHENzoLL.  Oh,  indeed !     Look  down  here :  there  he  sits ! 

[From  the  terrace  he  throws  the  light  on  the 
Prince.] 
Elector.        In  slumber  sunk?     Impossible! 
HoHENzoLLERN.  In  slumbcT 

Sunk  as  he  is,  speak  but  his  name  —  he  drops. 

[Pause.] 
Electress.     Sure  as  I  live,  the  youth  is  taken  ill. 
Natalie.         He  needs  a  doctor's  care  — 
Electress.  We  should  give  help, 

Not  waste  time,  gentlemen,  meseems,  in  scorn. 
Hohenzollern  {handing  back  the  torch). 

He's  sound,  you  tender-hearted  women  folk. 
By  Jove,  as  sound  as  I !    He  '11  make  the  Swede 
Aware  of  that  upon  tomorrow's  field. 
It's  nothing  more,  and  take  my  word  for  it, 
Than  a  perverse  and  silly  trick  of  the  mind. 
Elector.        By  faith,  I  thought  it  was  a  fairy-tale ! 

Follow  me,  friends,  we'll  take  a  closer  look. 
[They  descend  from  the  terrace.] 
Gentleman-in-waiting  {to  the  pages). 
Back  with  the  torches ! 


THE  PRINCE  OF  HOMBURG  419 

HoHENzoLLERN.  LeavG  them,  leave  them,  friends ! 

These  precincts  might  roar  up  to  heaven  in  fire 
And  his  soul  be  no  more  aware  of  it 
Than  the  bright  stone  he  wears  upon  his  hand. 
[They  surround  him,  the  pages  illuminating 
the  scene.] 
Elector  {bending  over  the  Prince). 

What  leaf  is  it  he  binds  1    Leaf  of  the  willow? 
HoHENzoLL.  What!     Willow-leaf,  my  lord?     It  is  the  bay,  ^- 

Such  as  his  eyes  have  noted  on  the  portraits  >   La-y^^. 
Of  heroes  hung  in  Berlin's  armor-hall.  ^ 

Elector.         Where  hath  he  found  that  in  my  sandy  soil? 
HoHENZOLL.  The  equitable  gods  may  guess  at  that! 
Gentleman-in-waiting. 

It  may  be  in  the  garden,  where  the  gardener 

Has  nurtured  other  strange,  outlandish  plants. 

Elector.        Most  curious,  by  heaven !   But  what's  the  odds? 

I  know  what  stirs  the  heart  of  this  young  fool. 

HoHENZoLL.  Indeed!    Tomorrow's  clash  of  arms,  my  liege!  . 

Astrologers,  I'll  wager,  in  his  mind  /i^^-w 

Are  weaving  stars  into  a  triumph  wreath. 

[The  Prince  regards  the  wreath.]  v       'T 
Gentleman-in-waiting.      Now  it  is  done !  \         I 

HoHENzoLLERN.  A  sliame,  a  mortal  shame,  . 

That  there 's  no  mirror  in  the  neighborhood ! 
He  Avould  draw  close  to  it,  vain  as  any  girl, 
And  try  his  wreath  on,  thus,  and  then  again 
This  other  way  —  as  if  it  were  a  bonnet ! 
Elector.        By  faith !    But  I  must  see  how  far  he  '11  go ! 

[The  Elector  takes  the  wreath  from  the 
Prince's  hand  while  the  latter  regards 
him,  flushing.  The  Elector  thereupon 
twines  his  neck-chain  about  the  wreath 
and  gives  it  to  the  Princess.  The  Prince 
rises  in  excitement,  but  the  Elector  draws 
back  with  the  Princess,  still  holding  the 
wreath  aloft.  The  Prince  follows  her 
tvith  outstretched  arms.] 


420  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

The  Pkince  (ivhispering) . 

Natalie !     Oh,  my  girl !     Oh,  my  beloved  I 
Elector.        Make  haste !    Away ! 
HoHENzoLLERN.  What  did  the  fool  say? 

Gentleman-in-waiting.  What? 

[They  all  ascend  the  stair  to  the  terrace.] 
The  Prince.  Frederick,  my  prince !  my  father ! 
HoHENzoLLERN.  Hell  and  devils ! 

Elector  (backing  away  from  him). 
Open  the  gate  for  me! 
The  Prince.  Oh,  mother  mine ! 

HoHENzoLL.  The  raving  idiot ! 

Electress.  Whom  did  he  call  thus? 

The  Prince  (clutching  at  the  wreath). 

Beloved,  why  do  you  recoil  ?    My  Natalie ! 
[He  snatches  a  glove  from  the  Princess* 
hand.] 
HoHENZOLL.  Heaven  and  earth!     What  laid  he  hands  on 

there? 
Courtier.       The  wreath? 
Natalie.  No,  no  I 

HoB-BN zo'LL.F.n-^  (opening  the  door).    Hither!    This  way,  my 
liege ! 
So  the  whole  scene  may  vanish  from  his  eye ! 
Elector.        Back  to  oblivion,  with  you,  oblivion, 

Sir  Prince  of  Homburg!    On  the  battle-field, 
J  If  you  be  so  disposed,  we  meet  again ! 

Such  matters  men  attain  not  in  a  dream ! 
[They  all  go  out;  the  door  crashes  shut  in 
the  Prince's  face.   Pause.] 

Scene  II 

Hie  Prince  of  Homburg  remains  standing  before  the  door  a  moment 
in  perplexity;  then  dreamily  descends  from  the  terrace,  the  hand  hold- 
ing the  glove  pressed  against  his  forehead.  At  the  foot  of  the  stair 
he  turns  again,  gazing  up  at  the  door. 


■\ 


THE  PRINCE  OF  HOMBUBG  421 

Scene  III 

Enter  Count  Hohenzollern  hy  the  wicket  below.    A  page  follows  him. 
The  Peince  of  Homburg. 

Page  (softly). 

Count!     Listen,   do!     Most   worshipful    Sir 
Count! 

HoHENzoLLEBN  (vexed). 

Grasshopper!    Well?    What's  wanted? 

Page.  I  am  sent  — • 

HoHENzoLL.  Speak  softly  now,  don't  wake  him  with  your 
chirping ! 
Come  now!    What's  up? 

Page.  The  Elector  sent  me  hither. 

He  charges  you  that,  when  the  Prince  awakes, 
You  breathe  no  word  to  him  about  the  jest  ^  i//^i^  M^ 
It  was  his  pleasure  to  allow  himself.  -*/ 

HOHENZOLLERN    {softly). 

You  skip  off  to  the  wheatfield  for  some  sleep. 
I  knew  that,  hours  ago.    So  run  along. 

Scene  IV 

Count  Hohenzollern  and  the  Prince  of  Homburg. 

HoHENZOLLERN  [taking  a  position  some  distance  behind  the 
Peince  who  is  still  gazing  fixedly  up  toward 
the  terrace). 
Arthur!     [The  Peince  drops  to  the  ground.] 

And  there  he  lies ! 
You  could  not  do  it  better  with  a  bullet. 

[He  approaches  him.] 
Now  I  am  eager  for  the  fairy-tale 
He'll  fabricate  to  show  the  reason  why 
Of  all  the  world  he  chose  this  place  to  sleep  in. 

[He  bends  over  him.] 
Arthur!  Hi!    Devil's  own!    What  are  you  up 

to? 
What  are  you  doing  here  at  dead  of  night? 
The  Prince.  Ah,  dear,  old  fellow! 


422  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

HoHENzoLLEKN.  Well,  I 'm  liauged !    See  here! 

The  cavalry's  a  full  hour  dovm  the  road 

And  you,  their  colonel,  you  lie  here  and  sleep. 
The  Prince.  What  cavalry? 
HoHENzoLLERN.  The  Mamelukes,  of  course ! 

Sure  as  I  live  and  breathe,  the  man's  forgot 

That  he  commands  the  riders  of  the  Mark ! 
The  Peince  {rising). 

My  helmet,  quick  then !    My  cuirass ! 
Hohenzollern.  Where  are  they? 

The  Prince.  Off  to  the  right  there,  Harry. —  On  the  stool. 
HoHENzoLL.  Where?    On  the  stool? 

The  Prince.  I  laid  them  there,  I  thought  — 

HoHENZOLLERN  {regarding  him). 

Then  go  and  get  them  from  the  stool  yourself. 
The  Prince.  What's  this  glove  doing  here? 

[He  stares  at  the  glove  in  his  hand.] 
Hohenzolleen.  How  should  I  know? 

[Aside.]     Curses!     He  must  have  torn  that 
unobserved 

From  the  lady  niece 's  arm.  [Abruptly.]  Quick 
now,  be  off! 

What  are  you  waiting  for? 
The  Prince  {casting  the  glove  aivay  again). 

I'm  coming,  coming. 

Hi,  Frank !    The  knave  I  told  to  wake  me  must 
have  — 
Hohenzollern  {regarding  him). 

It's  raving  mad  he  is! 
The  Prince.  Upon  my  oath, 

Harry,  my  dear,  I  don 't  know  where  I  am. 
Hohenzoll.  In  Fehrbellin,  you  muddle-headed  dreamer  — 

You're  in  a  by-path  of  the  Castle  gardens. 
The  Prince  {to  himself). 

Engulf  me.  Night !    Unwittingly  once  more 

In   slumber  through   the   moonshine   have   I 

(f'l  V.        strayed!  [He  imlls  himself  together.] 

J^yV-'  Forgive  me !    Now  I  know !    Last  night,  recall, 


I 


THE  PRINCE  OF  HOMBURG  423 

The  heat  was  such  one  scarce  could  lie  in  bed. 
I  crept  exhausted  hither  to  this  garden, 
And  because  Night  with  so  sweet  tenderness 
Encompassed    me,    fair-haired    and    odorous 

Night  — 
Even  as  the  Persian  bride  wraps  close  her 

lover, 
Lo,  here  I  laid  my  head  upon  her  lap. 
What  is  the  clock  now? 

HoHENzoLLERN.  Half  au  hour  of  midnight. 

ThePrixce.  And  you  aver  the  troops  are  on  the  march? 

HoHENzoLL.  Upon    my    word,    sharp,    stroke    of    ten,    as 
planned. 
The  Princess  Orange  regiment  in  van, 
By  this  undoubtedly  has  reached  the  heights 
Of  Hackelwitz,  there  in  the  face  of  Wrangel 
To  cloak  the  army's  hid  approach  at  dawn. 

The  Prince.  Well,  no  harm's  done.    Old  Kottwitz  captains 
her 
And  he  knows  every  purpose  of  this  march. 
I  should  have  been  compelled,  at  all  events       /  O/^ ^ 
By  two,  to  come  back  hither  for  the  council :      {  ujo^  -. 
Those  were  the  orders.    So  it's  just  as  well       'i»oi<uco-' 
I  stayed  in  the  beginning.    Let's  be  off.  \jU)/ic^ 

The  Elector  has  no  inkling? 

Hohenzollern.  Bah!    How  should  he's 

He's  tight  abed  and  snoozing  long  ago. 

[They  are  about  to  depart  when  the  Prince 
starts,  turns,  and  picks  tip  the  glove.] 

The  Prince.  I  dreamed  such  an  extraordinary  dream! 
It  seemed  as  though  the  palace  of  a  king, 
Radiant  with  gold  and  silver,  suddenly 
Oped  wide  its  doors,  and  from  its  terrace 

high  ^ 

The  galaxy  of  those  my  heart  loves  best  ,•    / 

Came  down  to  me :  ^ 

The  Elector  and  his  Lady  and  the  — third-    ''''^ 
Wliat  is  her  name? 


424  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

HOHENZOLLERN.  WhoSG? 

The  Prince  {searching  his  memory). 

Why,  the  one  I  mean  I 

A  mute  must  find  his  tongue  to  speak  her  name. 
HoHENzoLL.  The  Platen  girl? 
The  Prince.  Come,  come,  now! 

HoHENzoLLERN.  The  Ramiu? 

The  Prince.  No,  no,  old  fellow ! 

Hohenzollern.  Bork?    Or  Winterfeld? 

The  Prince.  No,  no !    My  word !    You  fail  to  see  the  pearl 

For  the  bright  circlet  that  but  sets  it  off! 
Hohenzoll.  Damn  it,  then,  tell  me !    I  can't  guess  the  face ! 

What  lady  do  you  mean? 
The  Prince.  Well,  never  mind. 

The  name  has  slipped  from  me  since  I  awoke, 

And  goes  for  little  in  the  story. 
Hohenzollern.  Well, 

Let's  have  it  then! 
The  Prince.  But  now,  don't  interrupt  me!  — 

And  the  Elector  of  the  Jovelike  brow. 

Holding  a  wreath  of  laurel  in  his  hand, 

Stands  close  beside  me,  and  the  soul  of  me 
(/  .  ^  To   ravish   quite,   twines   round   the   jeweled 

j    ^^  band    • 

'^    •  That  hangs  about  his  neck,  and  unto  one 

Gives  it  to  press  upon  my  locks  —  Oh,  friend! 
Hohenzoll.  To  whom? 
The  Prince.  Oh,  friend! 

Hohenzollern.  To  whom  then?    Come,  speak  up! 

The  Prince.  I  think  it  must  have  been  the  Platen  girl. 
Hohenzoll.  Platen?     Oh,   bosh!     Not   she   who's   off   in 

Prussia? 
The  Prince.  Really,  the  Platen  girl.    Or  the  Ramin? 
Hohenzoll.  Lord,  the  Ramin!    She  of  the  brick-red  hair? 

The  Platen  girl  with  those  coy,  violet  eyes  — 

They  say  you  fancy  her. 
The  Prince.  I  fancy  her  — 

Hohenzoll.  So,  and  you  say  she  handed  you  the  wreath? 


THE  PRINCE  OF  HOMBURG 


425 


The  Prince.  Oh,  like  some  deity  of  fame  she  lifts 

High  up  the  circlet  with  its  dangling  chain 

As  if  to  crown  a  hero.    I  stretch  forth, 

Oh,  in  delight  unspeakable,  my  hands 

I  stretch  to  seize  it,  yearning  with  my  soul 

To  sink  before  her  feet.    But  as  the  odor 

That  floats  above  green  valleys,  by  the  wind's 

Cool  breathing  is  dispelled,  the  group  recedes 

Up  the  high  terrace  from  me ;  lo,  the  terrace 

Beneath  my  tread  immeasurably  distends 

To  heaven's  very  gate.    I  clutch  at  air 

Vainly  to  right,  to  left  I  clutch  at  air, 

Of  those  I  loved  hungering  to  capture  one. 

In  vain !    The  palace  portal  opes  amain. 

A  flash  of  lightning  from  within  engulfs  them ; 

Rattling,  the  door  flies  to.    Only  a  glove 

I  ravish  from  the  sweet  dream-creature's  arm 

In  passionate  pursuing;  and  a  glove, 

By  all  the  gods,  awaking,  here  I  hold ! 

HoHENzoLL.  Upon  my  word  —  and,  you  assume,  the  glove 
Must  be  her  glove  ? 

The  Peince.  Whose  ? 

HoHENzoLLEKN.  Well,  the  Platen  girl's. 

The  Prince.  Platen !    Of  course.    Or  could  it  be  Ramin's? 

HoHENZOLLERN  (with  a  Ittugh). 

Rogue  that  you  are  with  your  mad  fantasies ! 
Who  knows  from  what  exploit  delectable 
Here  in  a  waking  hour  with  flesh  and  blood 
The  glove  sticks  to  your  hand,  now  ? 

The  Prince.  Eh?  What?  I? 

With  all  my  love  — 


HoHENZOLLERN. 


Oh,  well  then,  what's  the  odds? 


Call  it  the  Platen  lady,  or  Ramin. 
There  is  a  Prussian  post  on  Sunday  next, 
So  you  can  find  out  by  the  shortest  way 
Whether  your  lady  fair  has  lost  a  glove. 
Off !    Twelve  o  'clock !    And  we  stand  here  and 
jaw ! 


426  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

The  Prince  {dreamily  into  space). 

Yes,  you  are  right.    Come,  let  us  go  to  bed. 

But  as  I  had  it  on  my  mind  to  say  — 

Is  the  Electress  who  arrived  in  camp 

Not  long  since  with  her  niece,  the  exquisite 

Princess  of  Orange,  is  she  still  about? 
HoHENzoLL.  Why?  —  I  declare  the  idiot  thinks  — 
The  Peixce.  Why? 

I've  orders  to  have  thirty  mounted  men 

Escort  them  safely  from  the  battle-lines. 

Ramin  has  been  detailed  to  lead  them. 
Hohenzollern.  Bosh ! 

They're  gone  long  since,  or  just  about  to  go. 

The  whole  night  long,  Ramin,  all  rigged  for 
flight, 

Has  hugged  the  door.    But  come.    It's  stroke 
o'  twelve. 

And  I,  for  one,  before  the  fight  begins, 

I  want  to  get  some  sleep. 

Scene  V 

The  same.  Hall  in  the  palace.  In  the  distance,  the  sound  of  cannon. 
The  Electress  and  Princess  Natalie,  dressed  for  travel,  enter, 
escorted  by  a  gentleman-in-waiting ,  and  sit  down  at  the  side.  Ladies- 
in-waiting.  A  little  later  the  Elector  enters  loith  Field-Marshal 
DoRFLiNG,  the  Prince  of  Homburg  with  the  glove  in  his  collar,  Count 
Hohenzollern,  Count  Truchsz,  Colonel  Hennings,  Troop-Captain 
VON  DEE  Golz  and  several  other  generals,  colonels  and  minor  officers. 

Elector.        What  is  that  cannonading?  —  Is  it  Gotz? 

DoRFLiNG.      It's  Colonel  Gotz,  my  liege,  who  yesterday 
Pushed  forward  with  the  van.    An  ofiBcer 
Has  come  from  him  already  to  allay 
Your  apprehensions  ere  they  come  to  birth. 
A  Swedish  outpost  of  a  thousand  men 
Has  pressed  ahead  into  the  Hackel  Hills, 
But  for  those  hills  Gotz  stands  security 
And  sends  me  word  that  you  should  lay  your 

plans 
As  though  his  van  already  held  them  safe. 


THE  PRINCE  OF  HOMBURG 


427 


Elector  (to  the  officers). 

The  Marshal  knows  the  plan.  Now,  gentlemen, 
I  beg  you  take  your  pens  and  write  it  down. 
[The   officers  assemble   on   the   other  side 
about  the  Field-Maeshal,  and  take  out 
their  tablets.     The  Elector  turns   to  a 
gentleman-in-waiting.] 
Ramin  is  waiting  with  the  coach  outside? 
Gentleman-in-waiting. 

At  once,  my  sovereign.  They  are  hitching  now. 
Elector  (seating  himself  on  a  chair  behind  the  Electress 
and  the  Princess). 
Ramin  shall  escort  my  beloved  wife, 
Convoyed  by  thirty  sturdy  cavalrymen. 
To   Kalkhuhn's,   to   the   chancellor's   manor- 
house. 
At  Havelberg  beyond  the  Havel,  go. 
There 's  not  a  Swede  dare  show  his  face  there 
now. 
Electress.     The  ferry  is  restored! 
Elector.  At  Havelberg? 

I  have  arranged  for  it.    The  day  will  break 
In  all  events  before  you  come  to  it.    [Pause.] 
You  are  so  quiet,  Natalie,  my  girl? 
^VhataUs  the  child? 
Natalie.  Uncle,  I  am  afraid. 

Elector.        And  yet  my  little  girl  was  not  more  safe 
In  her  own  mother's  lap  than  she  is  now. 

[Pause.] 
Electress.  When  do  you  think  that  we  shall  meet  again? 
Elector.        If  God  grants  me  the  victory,  as  I 

Doubt  not  He  will,  in  a  few  days,  perhaps. 
[Pages  enter  and  serve  the  ladies  refresh- 
ments.  Field-Marshal  Dorfling  dictates. 
The  Prince  of  Homburg,  /;ew  and  tablet 
in  hand,  stares  at  the  ladies.] 


428 


THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 


Maeshal.       The  battle-plan  his  Highness  has  devised 

Intends,  my  lords,  in  order  that  the  Swedes* 
Fugitive  host  be  utterly  dispersed, 
The  severing  of  their  army  from  the  bridges 
That  guard  their  rear  along  the  river  Rhyn. 
Thus  Colonel  Hennings  — 
Hennings.  Here !    [He  writes.] 

Marshax,.  Who  by  the  will 

Of  his  liege  lord  commands  the  army's  right. 
Shall  seek  by  stealthy  passage  through  the 

bush 
To  circumscribe  the  enemy's  left  wing, 
Fearlessly  hurl  his  force  between  the  foe 
And  the  three  bridges ;  then,  joined  with  Count 

Truchsz — 
Count  Truchsz ! 
Truchsz  (writing).  Here! 

Marshal.  Thereupon,  joined  with  Count  Truchsz  — 

[He  pauses.] 
Who,    meanwhile,    facing    Wrangel    on    the 

heights 
Has  gained  firm  footing  with  his  cannonry — 
Truchsz  (writing).     Firm  footing  with  his  cannonry  — 
Marshal.  You  hear  it? — 

[Proceeding.] 
Attempt  to  drive  the  Swedes  into  the  swamp 
Which  lies  behind  their  right. 

[A  lackey  enters.] 
Lackey.         Madam,  the  coach  is  at  the  door. 

[The  ladies  rise.] 
Marshal.       The  Prince  of  Homburg  — 
Elector  (also  rising).  Is  Ramin  at  hand? 

Lackey.  He's  in  the  saddle,  waiting  at  the  gates. 

[The  royalties  take  leave  of  one  another.] 
Truchsz  (writing).    Which  lies  behind  their  right. 


THE  PRINCE  OF  HOMBURG  •    429 

Maeshal.  The  Prince  of  Homburg  — 

Where  is  the  Prince  of  Homburg? 
HoHENzoLLEEN  {ifi  a  ivMsper) .  Arthur! 

The  Prince  {tuith  a  start).  Here! 

HoHENzoLL.  Have  you  gone  mad? 

The  Peince.  My  Marshal,  to  command  \J 

[He  flushes,  and,  taking  out  pen  and  parch- 
ment, writes.^ 
Maeshal.       To  whom  His  Highness,  trusting  that  he  lead 
His  force  to  glory  as  at  Rathenow, 
Confides  the  mounted  squadrons  of  the  Mark 

[He  hesitates.'] 
Though  in  no  way  disprizing  Colonel  Kottwitz 
Who  shall  be  aid  in  counsel  and  right  hand  — 
[To  Captain  Golz  in  a  low  voice.'] 
Is  Kottwitz  here  ? 
Golz.  No,  General.     He  has, 

You  note,  dispatched  me  hither  in  his  place 
To  take  the  battle  order  from  your  lips. 

[The  Peince  gazes  over  toward  the  ladies  - 
again.] 
Marshal  ( continuing ) . 

Takes  station  in  the  plain  near  Hackelwitz 
Facing  the  right  wing  of  the  enemy 
Well  out  of  range  of  the  artillery  fire. 
Golz  {writing).    Well  out  of  range  of  the  artillery  fire. 

[The    Electress    ties    a    scarf    about    the 
Peincess'  throat.    The  Peincess,  about  to 
draw  on  a  glove,  looks  around  as  if  she 
were  in  search  of  something.] 
Elector  {approaches  her). 

Dear  little  girl  of  mine,  what  have  you  lost? 
Electeess.     What  are  you  searching  for? 
Natalie.  Why,  Auntie  dear, 

My  glove !     I  can 't  imagine  — 

[They  all  look  about.] 
Electoe  {to  the  ladies-in-waiting) .    Would  you  mind?  — 
Electeess  {to  the  Peincess).     It's  in  your  hand. 


430  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

Natalie.  The  right  glove;  but  the  left? 

Elector.        You  may  have  left  it  in  your  bedroom. 
Natalie.  Oh, 

Bork,  if  you  will? 
Elector  (to  the  lady-in-waiting).     Quick,  quick! 
Natalie.  Look  on  the  mantel. 

[The  lady-in-waiting  goes  out.] 
The  Prince  (aside). 

Lord  of  my  life  ?    Could  I  have  heard  aright  ? 
[He  draws  the  glove  from  his  collar.] 
Marshal  (looking  down  at  the  paper  which  he  holds  in 
his  hand). 
Well  out  of  range  of  the  artillery  fire. 

[Continuing.] 
The  Prince's  Highness  — 
The  Prince  (regarding  now  the  glove,  now  the  Princess). 

It's  this  glove  she's  seeking — 
Marshal.       At  our  lord  sovereign's  express  command  — 
Golz    (writing).     At  our  lord   sovereign's   express  com- 
mand— 
Marshal.       Whichever  way  the  tide  of  battle  turn 

Shall  budge  not  from  his  designated  place. 
The  Prince.  Quick!     Now  I'll  know  in  truth  if  it  be  hers. 
[He  lets  the  glove  fall,  together  ivith  his 
handkerchief ;  then  recovers  the  handker- 
chief but  leaves  the  glove  lying  where 
everybody  can  see  it.] 
Marshal  (piqued).    What  is  His  Highness  up  to? 
Hohenzollern  (aside).  Arthur! 

The  Prince.  Here ! 

HoHENzoLL.  Faith,  you're  possessed! 

The  Prince.  My  Marshal,  to  command ! 

[He  takes  up  pen  and  tablet  once  more.   The 
Marshal  regards  him  an  instant,  ques- 
tioningly.     Pause.] 
Golz  (reading,  after  he  has  finished  writing). 

Shall  budge  not  from  his  designated  place. 


THE  PRINCE  OF  HOMBURG  431 

Maeshal  (continues). 

Until,    hard   pressed   by   Hennings    and   by 
Truchsz  — 
The  Prince  (looking  over  Golz's  shoulder). 

Who,  my  dear  Golz?     What?     I? 
GoLZ.  Why,  yes.    Who  else? 

The  Prince.  I  shall  not  budge  — 
GoLz.  That's  it. 

Marshal.  Well,  have  you  got  itf 

The  Prince  (aloud). 

Shall  budge  not  from  my  designated  place. 

[He  writes.] 
Marshal.       Until,    hard    pressed   by    Hennings    and    by 
Truchsz —  [He  pauses.] 

The  left  wing  of  the  enemy,  dissolved, 
Plunges  upon  its  right,  and  wavering 
The  massed  battalions  crowd  into  the  plain, 
Where,  in  the  marsh,  criss-crossed  by  ditch  on 

ditch. 
The  plan  intends  that  they  be  wholly  crushed. 
Elector.        Lights,  pages!      Come,  my  dear,  your  arm, 
and  yours. 
[He  starts  to  go  out  with  the  Electress  and 
the  Princess.] 
Marshal.       Then   he   shall   let   the   trumpets   sound   the 

charge. 
Electress  (as  several  officers,  bowing  and  scraping,  hid  her 
farewell). 
Pray,  let  me  not  disturb  you,  gentlemen. — 
Until  we  meet  again ! 

[The  Marshal  also  bids  her  good-by.] 
Elector  (suddenly  standing  still).    Why,  here  we  are! 

The  lady's  glove.  Come,  quick  now !  There  it  is. 
Gentleman-in-waiting.    Where  ? 

Elector.         At  our  cousin's,  at  Prince  Homburg's  feet. 
The  Prince.  What!  At  mi/ feet!  The  glove?  It  is  your  own? 
[He  picks  it  up  and  brings  it  to  the  Princess.] 


432  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

Natalie.         I  thank  you,  noble  Prince. 

The  Prince  {confused).  Then  it  is  yours? 

Natalie.         Yes,  it  is  mine ;  it  is  the  one  I  lost. 

[She  takes  it  and  draws  it  onS\ 
Electress  {turning  to  the  Princess,  she  goes  out). 

Farewell !  Farewell !     Good  luck !     God  keep 

you  safe ! 
See  that  erelong  we  joyously  may  meet! 

{The   Elector   goes   out   with   the   ladies. 
Attendants,  courtiers  and  pages  folloiv.] 
The  Prince  {stands  an  instant  as  though  struck  hy  a  holt 
from  heaven;  then  tvith  triumphant  step  he 
returns  to  the  group  of  officers). 
Then   he   shall   let  the   trumpets   sound   the 
charge!  {He  pretends  to  write.^ 

Marshal  {looking  doivn  at  his  paper). 

Then   he    shall   let   the   trumpets   sound   the 

charge. — 
However,  the  Elector's  Highness,  lest 
Through  some  mistake  the  blow  should  fall 
too  soon —  {He  pauses.] 

GoLz  {writes).     Through  some  mistake  the  blow  should  fall 

too  soon  — 
The    Prince    {aside    to    Count    Hohenzollern    in   great 
perturbation). 
Oh,  Harry! 
Hohenzollern  {impatiently). 

What 's  up  now  ?    What 's  in  your  head  f 
The  Prince.  Did  you  not  see? 

Hohenzollern.  In  Satan's  name,  shut  up! 

LIarshal  {continuing). 

Shall  send  an  officer  of  his  staff  to  him; 
Who,  mark  this  well,  shall  finally  transmit 
The  order  for  the  charge  against  the  foe. 
Ere   this  the  trumpets   shall  not   sound  the 
charge. 

{The  Prince  gases  dreamily  into  space.] 
Well,  have  you  got  it? 


THE  PRINCE  OF  HOMBURG  433 

GoLZ  (writes).     Ere  this  the  trumpets  shall  not  sound  the 

charge. 
Marshal  (in  raised  tone). 

Your  Highness  has  it  down? 
The  Prince.  Marshal? 

Marshal.  I  asked 

If  you  had  writ  it  do^vn  ? 
The  Prince.  About  the  trumpets  ? 

Hohenzollern  (aside,  with  emphatic  indignation). 

Trumpets  be  damned !     Not  till  the  order  — 
GoLz  (in  the  same  tone).  Not 

Till  he  himself  — 
The  Prince  (interrupting) .    Naturally  not,  before  — 

But  then  he'll  let   the  trumpets   sound  the 
charge.  [He  writes.    Pause.] 

Marshal.       And  I  desire  —  pray  note  it,  Baron  Golz  — 

Before  the  action  opens,  to  confer 

With  Colonel  Kottwitz,  if  it  can  be  done. 
Golz  (significantly).    He  shall  receive  your  message.    Rest 
assured.  [Pause.] 

Elector  ( returning ) . 

What  now,  my  colonels  and  my  generals ! 

The  morning  breaks.     Have  you  the  orders 
down? 
Marshal.       The  thing  is  done,  my  liege.     Your  battle-plan 

Is  in  all  points  made  clear  to  your  commanders. 
Elector  (picking  up  his  hat  and  gloves). 

And  you,  I  charge,  Prince  Homburg,  learn y  ^^^^^^^^  ^^^ 
control ! 

Recall,  you  forfeited  two  victories 

Of  late,  upon  the  Rhine,  so  keep  your  head ! 

Make  me  not  do  without  the  third  today. 

My  land  and  throne  depend  on  it,  no  less. 

[To  the  officers.] 

Come !  —  Frank ! 
A  Groom  (entering).     Here! 
Vol.  IV  — 28 


434  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

Elector.  Quick  there !     Saddle  me  my  gray ! 

I  will  be  on  the  field  before  the  sun ! 

[He  goes  out,  folloived  by  generals,  colonels 
and  minor  officers.] 


Scene  VI 

The  Prince  {coming  forward). 

Now,    on    thine    orb,    phantasmic    creature, 
Fortune, 
"^hose  veil  a  faint  wind 's  breathing  even  now 
Lifts  as  a  sail,  roll  hither !    Thou  hast  touched 
My  hair  in  passing;  as  thou  hovered 'st  near 
Already  from  thy  horn  of  plenty  thou 
Benignantly  hast  cast  me  down  a  pledge. 
Child  of  the  gods,  today,  0  fugitive  one, 
I  will  pursue  thee  on  the  field  of  battle. 
Seize  thee,  tear  low  thy  horn  of  plenty,  pour 
Wholly  thy  radiant  blessings  round  my  feet. 
Though  sevenfold  chains  of  iron  bind  thee  fast 
To  the  triumphant  chariot  of  the  Swede ! 

[Exit.] 

ACT   II 

Scene :    Battlefield  of  Fehrbellin. 

Scene  I 

Colonel  Kottwitz,  Count  Hohenzollern,  Captain  von  der  Golz  and 
other  officers  enter  at  the  head  of  the  cavalry. 

Kottwitz  (outside).     Halt!     Squadron, halt !     Dismount! 
Hohenzollern  and  Golz  (entering).  Halt  —  halt! 

Kottwitz.      Hey,  friends,  who'll  help  me  off  my  horse? 
Hohenzollern  and  Golz.  Here  —  here ! 

[They  step  outside  again.] 


THE  PRINCE  OF  HOMBURG  435 

KoTTWiTZ  {still  outside). 

Thanks  to  you  —  ouch !  Plague  take  me !  May 

a  son 
Be  giv'n  you  for  your  pains,  a  noble  son 
Who  '11  do  the  same  for  you  when  you  grow  sear. 
[He    enters,    followed    by    Hohenzollern, 
GoLZ  and  others.] 
Oh,  in  the  saddle  I  am  full  of  youth ! 
When  I  dismount,  though,  there's  a  battle  on 
As  though  the  spirit  and  the  flesh  were  parting, 
In  wrath.     [Looking  about.]     Where  is  our 
chief,  the  Prince's  Highness? 

HoHENzoLL.  The  Prince  will  momentarily  return. 

KoTTwiTz.      Where  has  he  gone? 

Hohenzollern.  He  rode  down  to  a  hamlet, 

In  foliage  hidden,  so  you  passed  it  by. 
He  will  return  erelong. 

Officer.  Last  night,  they  say, 

His  horse  gave  him  a  tumble. 

Hohenzollern.  So  they  say. 

KoTTwiTz.      He  fell? 

Hohenzollern  {turning).    A  matter  of  no  consequence. 

His  horse  shied  at  the  mill,  but  down  his  flank 
He  lightly  slipped  and  did  himself  no  harm. 
It  is  not  worth  the  shadow  of  a  thought. 

KoTTWiTZ  {ascending  a  slight  elevation). 

A  fine  day,  as  I  breathe  the  breath  of  life ! 
A  day  our  God,  the  lofty  Lord  of  earth, 
For  sweeter  things  than  deadly  combat  made. 
Ruddily  gleams  the  sunlight  through  the  clouds 
And  with  the  lark  the  spirit  flutters  up 
Exultant  to  the  joyous  airs  of  heaven ! 

GoLz.  Did  you  succeed  in  finding  Marshal  Dorfling? 

KoTTWiTZ  {coming  forward). 

The  Devil,  no !     What  does  my  lord  expect? 

Am  I  a  bird,  an  arrow,  an  idea, 

That  he  should  bolt  me  round  the  entire  field  ? 


iJ 


436 


THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 


GOLZ. 

Officer. 


I  was  at  Hackel  hillock  Avitli  the  van 
And  with  the  rearguard  down  in  Hackel  vale. 
The  one  man  whom  I  saw  not  was  the  Marshal ! 
Wherefore  I  made  my  way  back  to  my  men. 
He  will  be  ill-content.     He  had,  it  seemed, 
A  matter  of  some  import  to  confide. 
His   Highness   comes,   our  commandant,  the 
Prince ! 


Scene  II 

The  I*RINCB  OF  HOMBURG  with  a  black  bandage  on  his  left  hand. 

others  as  before. 


The 


f     i 


KoTTWiTZ.      My  young  and  very  noble  prince,  God  greet 
you! 

Look,  how  I  formed  the  squadrons  down  that 
road 

While  you  were  tarrying  in  the  nest  below. 

I  do  believe  you'll  say  I've  done  it  well. 
The  Prince.  Good  morning,  Kottwitz !    And  good  morning, 
friends ! 

You  know  that  I  praise  everything  you  do. 
HoHENzoLL.  What  were  you  up  to  in  the  village,  Arthur? 

You  seem  so  grave. 
The  Prince.  I — I  was  in  the  chapel 

That  beckoned  through  the  placid  village  trees ; 

The  bells  were  ringing,  calling  men  to  prayers, 

As  we  passed  by,  and  something  urged  me  on 

To  kneel  before  the  altar,  too,  and  pray. 
Kottwitz.      A  pious  gentleman  for  one  so  young ! 

A  deed,  believe  me,  that  begins  with  prayer 

Must  end  in  glory,  victory,  and  fame. 
The  Prince.  Oh,  by  the  way,  I  wanted  to  inquire  — 

[He  draws  the  Count  forward  a  step.] 

Harry,  what  was  it  Dorfling  said  last  night 

In  his  directions,  that  applied  to  me? 
HoHENZOLL.  You  werc  distraught.     I  saw  that  well  enough. 


THE  PRINCE  OF  HOMBURG  437 

ThePbince.  Distraught  —  divided!     I  scarce  know  what 
ailed  me. 
Dictation  always  sets  my  wits  awry. 
HoHENzoLL.  Not  mucli  for  you  this  time,  as  luck  would 
have  it. 
Hennings  and  Truchsz,  who  lead  the  infantry, 
Are  designated  to  attack  the  foe. 
And  you  are  ordered  here  to  halt  and  stay, 
Ready  for  instant  action  with  the  horse, 
Until  an  order  summon  you  to  charge. 
The  Prince  {after  a  pause,  dreamily). 

A  curious  thing! 
Hohenzollern.  To  what  do  you  refer? 

[He  looks  at  him.    A  cannon-shot  is  heard.] 
KoTTwiTZ.      Ho,  gentlemen !    Ho,  sirs !    To  horse,  to  horse ! 
That  shot  is  Hennings ',  and  the  fight  is  on ! 
[They  all  ascend  a  slight  elevation.] 
The  Prince.  Who  is  it  I     What! 

Hohenzollern.  It's  Colonel  Hennings,  Arthur, 

He's  stolen  his  way  about  to  Wrangel's  rear. 
Come,  you  can  watch  the  entire  field  from  here. 
GoLZ  {on  the  hillock). 

At  the  Rhyn  there,  how  terribly  he  uncoils ! 
The  Prince  {shading  his  eyes  with  his  hand). 

Is  Hennings  over  there  on  our  right  wing? 
1st  Officer.  Indeed,  Your  Highness. 

The  Prince.  What  the  devil  then! 

Why,  yesterday  he  held  our  army's  right. 

[Cannonade  in  the  distance.] 
KoTTwiTz.      Thunder  and  lightning!     Wrangel's  cutting 
loose 
At  Hennings'  now,  from  twelve  loud  throats 
of  fire. 
1st  Officer.  I  call  those  some  redoubts  the  Swedes  have 
there ! 


438 


THE  t^ERMAN  CLASSICS 


2d  Officer.    By  heaven,  look,  they  top  the  very  spire 
Rising  above  the  hamlet  at  their  back! 

[Shots  near-by.] 
That's  Truchsz! 
Truchsz? 

To  be  sure!     Of  course,  it's  Truchsz, 
Approaching  from  the  front  to  his  support. 
The  Prince.  What's  Truchsz  there  in  the  centre  for,  today? 

[Loud  cannonading.] 
Good  heavens,  look.     The  village  is  afire ! 
Afire,  as  I  live! 

Afire !    Afire ! 
The  flames  are  darting  up  the  steeple  now! 
Hey!     How  the  Swedish  aides  fly  right  and 

left! 
They're  in  retreat! 

Where  ? 

There,  at  their  right  flank ! 
In  masses!  Sure  enough!  Three  regiments! 
The  intention  seems  to  be  to  brace  the  left. 
My  faith !  And  now  the  horse  are  ordered  out 
To  screen  the  right  wing's  march ! 
HoHENZOLLERN  (?(;^^/^  a /a?*^/i).  Hi!  How  they'll  scamper 
When  they  get  ware  of  us  here  in  the  vale ! 

[Musketry  fire.] 
Look,  brothers,  look! 

Hark! 

Fire  of  musketry ! 
They're  at  each  other  now  in  the  redoubts ! 
My  God,  in  my  born  days  I  never  heard 
Such  thunder  of  artillery ! 
HoHENzoLLERN.  Shoot !    Shoot ! 

Burst  open  wide  the  bowels  of  the  earth ! 
The  cleft  shall  be  your  corpses '  sepulchre ! 
[Pause.    Shouts  of  victory  in  the  distance.] 
1st  Officer.  Lord  in  the  heavens,  who  grants  men  victories ! 
Wrangel  is  in  retreat  already! 


GOLZ. 

The  Prince 
kottwitz. 


GoLZ. 

3d  Officer. 
1st  Officer 

GoLz. 

2d  Officer. 

KoTTWITZ. 

1st  Officer 
3d  Officer. 

2d  Officer. 


KoTTWITZ. 

2d  Officer. 
1st  Officer 
3d  Officer. 
GoLz. 


THE  PRINCE  OF  HOMBURG  439 

HOHENZOLLERN.  No ! 

GoLZ.  By  heaven,  friends !    Look !    There  on  his  left 

flank! 

He 's  drawing  back  his  guns  from  the  redoubts ! 
Ai,L.  Oh,  triumph !    Triumph !    Victory  is  ours ! 

The  Prince  {descending  from  the  hillock). 

On,  Kottwitz,  follow  me ! 
KoTTwiTz.  Come,  cool  now  —  cool ! 

ThePeince.  On!     Let   the   trumpets    sound    the   charge! 

And  on! 
Kottwitz.      Cool,  now,  I  say. 
The  Prince  {wildly). 

By  heav'n  and  earth  and  hell ! 
Kottwitz.      Our  liege's  Highness  in  the  ordinance 

Commanded  we  should  wait  his  orders  here. 

Golz,  read  the  gentlemen  the  ordinance. 
ThePeince.  Orders?    Eh,  Kottwitz,  do  you  ride  so  slow? 

Have  you  not  heard  the  orders  of  your  heart? 
Kottwitz.      Orders  ? 
HoHENzoLLERN.  Absurd ! 

Kottwitz.  The  orders  of  my  heart? 

HoHENzoLL.  Listen  to  reason,  Arthur! 
Golz.  Here,  my  chief ! 

Kottwitz  {offended). 

Oh,  ho !  you  give  me  that,  young  gentleman  ?  — 

The  nag  you  dance  about  on,  at  a  pinch 

I'll  tow  him  home  yet  at  my  horse's  tail! 

March,  march,  my  gentlemen !    Trumpets,  the 
charge ! 

On  to  the  battle,  on !    Kottwitz  is  game ! 
Golz  {to  Kottwitz). 

Never,  my  colonel,  never !    No,  I  swear ! 
2d  Officer.    Remember,  Hennings'  not  yet  at  the  Rhyn! 
1st  Officer.  Relieve  him  of  his  sword ! 


440  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

The  Prince.  My  sword,  you  say? 

[He  pushes  him  back.] 
Hi,  yoii  impertinent  boy,  who  do  not  even 
Know  yet   the   Ten   Commandments   of   the 

Mark! 
Here  is  your  sabre,  and  the  scabbard  with  it ! 
[He  tears  off  the  officer's  sword  together 
with  the  belt.] 
1st  Officer  (reeling). 

By  God,  Prince,  that's  — 
The  Prince  (threateningly). 

If  you  don 't  hold  your  tongue  — 
Hohenzollern  (to  the  officer). 

Silence !    You  must  be  mad ! 
The  Prince  (giving  up  the  sword). 

Ho,  corporal's  guard! 
Off  to  headquarters  with  the  prisoner ! 

[To  KoTTwiTZ  and  the  other  officers.] 
Now,  gentlemen,  the  countersign :    A  knave 
Who  follows  not  his  general  to  the  fight !  — 
Now,  who  dares  lag? 
KoTTwiTZ.  You  heard.    Why  thunder  more  ? 

Hohenzollern  ( mollifying ) . 

It  was  advice,  no  more,  they  sought  to  give. 
KoTTwiTZ.      On  your  head  be  it.    I  go  with  you. 
The  Prince  (somewhat  calmed).  Come! 

Be  it  upon  my  head  then.    Follow,  brothers ! 

[Exeunt.] 
Scene  III 

A  room  in  a  village.    A  gentleman-in-ivaiting ,  booted  and  spurred,  enters. 
A  peasant  and  his  wife  are  sitting  at  a  table,  at  work. 

Gentleman-in-waiting. 

God  greet  you,  honest  folk!     Can  you  make 
room 

To  shelter  guests  beneath  your  roof! 
Peasant.  Indeed ! 

Gladly,  indeed ! 
The  Wife.  And  may  one  question,  whom  1 


THE  PRINCE  OF  HOMBURG  441 

Gentleman-in-waiting. 

The  highest  lady  in  the  land,  no  less. 

Her   coach   broke   down   outside   the   village 
gates, 

And  since  we  hear  the  victory  is  won 

There'll  be  no  need  for  farther  journeying. 
Both  (rising). 

The  victory  won?    Heaven! 
Gentleman-in-waiting.  What!    You  haven't  heard? 

The  Swedish  army's  beaten  hip  and  thigh; 

If  not  forever,  for  the  year  at  least 

The  Mark  need  fear  no  more  their  fire  and 
sword !  — 

Here  comes  the  mother  of  our  people  now. 

Scene  IV 

The  Electress,  pale  and  distressed,  enters  with  the  Princess  Natalie, 
followed  by  various  ladies-in-waiting.     The  others  as  before. 

Electkess  (on  the  threshold). 

Bork!     Winterfeld!     Come!     Let   me    have 
your  arm. 
Natalie  (going  to  her). 

Oh,  mother  mine! 
Ladies-in-waiting.  Heavens,  how  pale !    She  is  faint. 

[They  support  her.] 
Electress.     Here,  lead  me  to  a  chair,  I  must  sit  down. 

Dead,  said  he  —  dead? 
Natalie.  Mother,  my  precious  mother ! 

Electress.     I'll  see  this  bearer  of  dread  news  myself. 

Scene  V 

Captain  von  Morner  enters,  wounded,  supported  by  two  troopers.    The 

others. 

Electress.     Oh,  herald  of  dismay,  what  do  you  bring? 
MoRNER.         Oh,  precious  Madam,  what  these  eyes  of  mine 
To  their  eternal  grief  themselves  have  seen! 
Electress.     So  be  it !    Tell ! 
MoRNER.  The  Elector  is  no  more. 


442  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

Natalie.  Oh,  heaven! 

Shall  such  a  hideous  blow  descend  on  us? 

[She  hides  her  face  in  her  hands.] 

Electress.     Give  me  report  of  how  he  came  to  fall  — 

And,  as  the  bolt  that  strikes  the  wanderer. 
In  one  last  flash  lights  scarlet-bright  the  world, 
So  be  your  tale.     When  you  are  done,  may 

night 
Close  down  upon  my  head. 

MoRNER  {approaching  her,  led  by  the  two  troopers). 

The  Prince  of  Homburg, 
Soon  as  the  enemy,  hard  pressed  by  Truchsz, 
Reeling  broke  cover,  had  brought  up  his  troops 
To  the  attack  of  Wrangel  on  the  plain ; 
Two  lines  he'd  pierced  and,  as  they  broke, 

destroyed, 
When  a  strong  earthwork  hemmed  his  way; 

and  thence 
So  murderous  a  fire  on  him  beat 
That,  like  a  field  of  grain,  his  cavalry, 
Mowed  to  the  earth,  went  down;  twixt  bush 

and  hill 
He  needs  must  halt  to  mass  his  scattered  corps. 

Natalie  {to  the  Electress). 

Dearest,  be  strong! 

Electress.  Stop,  dear.    Leave  me  alone. 

MoRNER.         That  moment,  watching,  clear  above  the  dust, 
We  see  our  liege  beneath  the  battle-flags 
Of  Truchsz  *s  regiments  ride  on  the  foe. 
On  his  white  horse,  oh,  gloriously  he  rode. 
Sunlit,  and  lighting  the  triumphant  plain. 
Heart-sick  with  trepidation  at  the  sight 
Of  him,  our  liege,  bold  in  the  battle's  midst, 
We  gather  on  a  hillock's  beetling  brow; 
When  of  a  sudden  the  Elector  falls, 
Horseman  and  horse,  in  dust  before  our  eyes. 
Two  standard-bearers  fell  across  his  breast 
And  overspread  his  body  with  their  flags. 


THE  PRINCE  OF  HOMBUBG 


443 


Natalie.         Oh,  mother  mine ! 

FiEST  Lady-in-waiting.  Oh,  heaven! 

Electeess.  Go  on,  go  on! 

MoRNER.         At  this  disastrous  spectacle,  a  pang 

Unfathomable  seized  the  Prince 's  heart ; 

Like  a  wild  beast,  spurred  on  of  hate  and 
vengeance, 

Forward  he  lunged  with  us  at  the  redoubt. 

Flying,  we  cleared  the  trench  and,  at  a  bound. 

The  shelt'ring  breastwork,  bore  the  garrison 
down. 

Scattered  them  out  across  the  field,  destroyed ; 

Capturing  the  Swede 's  whole  panoply  of  war — 

Cannon  and  standards,  kettle-drums  and  flags. 

And  had  the  group  of  bridges  at  the  Rhyn 

Hemmed  not  our  murderous  course,  not  one 
had  lived 

Who  might  have  boasted  at  his  father's  hearth : 

At  Fehrbellin  I  saw  the  hero  fall ! 
Electeess.     Triumph  too  dearly  bought !    I  like  it  not. 

Give  me  again  the  purchase-price  it  cost. 

[She  falls  in  a  faint.] 

First  Lady-in-waiting. 

Help,  God  in  heaven!    Her  senses  flee  from 
her.  [Natalie  is  weeping.] 


Scene  VI 

The  Prince  of  Homburg  enters.     The  others. 

The  Prince.  Oh,  Natalie,  my  dearest ! 

[Greatly  moved,  he  presses  her  hand  to  his 
heart.] 
Natalie.         Then  it  is  true? 

The  Prince.  Could  I  but  answer  No ! 

Could  I  but  pour  my  loyal  heart 's  blood  out 
To  call  his  loyal  heart  back  into  life ! 


444  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

Natalie  {drying  her  tears). 

Where  is  his  body?    Have  they  found  it  yet! 

ThePrinoe.  Until  this  hour,  alas,  my  labor  was 

Vengeance  on  Wrangle  only ;  how  could  I 
Then  dedicate  myself  to  such  a  task? 
A  horde  of  men,  however,  I  sent  forth 
To  seek  him  on  the  battle-plains  of  death. 
Ere  night  I  do  not  doubt  that  he  will  come. 

Natalie.         Who  now  will  lead  us  in  this  terrible  war 

And  keep  these  Swedes  in  subjugation?    Who 
Shield  us  against  this  world  of  enemies 
His  fortune  won  for  us,  his  high  renown? 

The  Prince  {taking  her  hand). 

I,  lady,  take  upon  myself  your  cause ! 
Before  the  desolate  footsteps  of  your  throne 
I  shall  stand  guard,  an  angel  with  a  sword ! 
The  Elector  hoped,  before  the  year  turned  tide, 
To  see  the  Marches  free.    So  be  it!    I 
Executor  will  be  of  that  last  will. 

Natalie.         My  cousin,  dearest  cousin! 

[She  withdraws  her  hand.] 

The  Peince.  Natalie ! 

[A  moment's  pause.] 
What  holds  the  future  now  in  store  for  you? 

Natalie.         After    this    thunderbolt    which    cleaves    the 
ground 
Beneath  my  very  feet,  what  can  I  do  ? 
My  father  and  my  precious  mother  rest 
Entombed  at  Amsterdam ;  in  dust  and  ashes 
Dordrecht,  my  heritage  ancestral  lies. 
Pressed  hard  by  the  tyrannic  hosts  of  Spain 
Maurice,  my  kin  of  Orange,  scarcely  knows 
How  he  shall  shelter  his  own  flesh  and  blood. 
And  now  the  last  support  that  held  my  fate's 
Frail  vine  upright  falls  from  me  to  the  earth. 
Oh,  I  am  orphaned  now  a  second  time  I 


THE  PRINCE  OF  HOMBURG  445 

The  Prince  {throwing  his  arm  about  her  waist). 

Oh,  friend,  sweet  friend,  were  this  dark  hour 

not  given 
To  grief,  to  be  its  own,  thus  would  I  speak: 
Oh,  twine  your  branches  here  about  this  breast, 
Which,  blossoming  long  years  in  solitude. 
Yearns  for  the  wondrous  fragrance  of  your 
bells. 
Natalie.         My  dear,  good  cousin ! 
The  Prince.  Will  you,  will  you? 

Natalie.  Ah, 

If  I  might  grow  into  its  very  marrow ! 

[She  lays  her  head  upon  his  breast.] 
The  Prince.  What  did  you  say? 
Natalie.  Go  now! 

The  Prince  {holding  her).  Into  its  kernel! 

Into  the  heart  *s  deep  kernel,  Natalie ! 

[He  kisses  her.    She  tears  herself  away.] 
Dear  God,  were  he  for  whom  we  grieve  but 

here 
To  look  upon  this  union !    Could  we  lift 
To  him  our  plea :    Father,  thy  benison ! 

I  He  hides  his  face  in  his  hands;  Natalie 
turns  again  to  the  Electress.] 

Scene  VII 

A  sergeant  enters  in  haste.    The  others  as  before. 

Sergeant.      By  the  Almighty  God,  my  Prince,  I  scarce 

Dare  bring  to  you  the  rumor  that's  abroad!  — 
The  Elector  lives ! 
The  Prince.  He  lives! 

Sergeant.  By  heaven  above ! 

Count  Sparren  brought  the  joyful  news  but 
now! 
Natalie.         Lord  of  my  days!    Oh,  mother,  did  you  hear? 
[She  falls  down  at  the  feet  of  the  Electress 
and  embraces  her.} 


446  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

The  Prince,  But  say !    Who  brings  the  news  ? 
Sergeant.  Count  George  of  Sparren, 

Who  saw  him,  hale  and  sound,  with  his  own 

eyes 
At  Hackelwitz  amid  the  Truchszian  corps. 
The  Prince.  Quick!     Run,  old  man!     And  bring  him  in 
to  me  I 

[The  Sergeant  goes  out.] 

Scene  VIII 

Count  Sparren  and  the  Sergeant  enter.     The  others  as  before. 

Electress.     Oh,  do  not  cast  me  twice  down  the  abyss ! 
Natalie.         No,  precious  mother  mine ! 
Electress.  And  Frederick  lives? 

Natalie  {holding  her  up  with  both  hands). 

The  peaks  of  life  receive  you  once  again! 
Sergeant  ( entering ) . 

Here  is  the  officer ! 
The  Prince.  Ah,  Count  von  Sparren ! 

You  saw  His  Highness  fresh  and  well  disposed 

At  Hackelwitz  amid  the  Truchszian  corps? 
Sparren.        Indeed,  Your  Highness,  in  the  vicarage  court 

Where^    compassed    by    his    staff,    he    gave 
commands 

For  burial  of  both  the  armies'  dead. 
Ladies-in-waiting. 

Dear  heaven !    On  thy  breast  — 

[They  embrace.] 
Electress.  My  daughter  dear! 

Natalie.         Oh,  but  this  rapture  is  well-nigh    too  great! 
[She  buries  her  face  in  her  aunt's  lap.] 
The  Prince.  Did  I  not  see  him,  when  I  stood  afar 

Heading  my  cavalry,  dashed  do^vn  to  earth. 

His  horse  and  he  shivered  by  cannon-shot? 
Sparren.        Indeed,  the  horse  pitched  with  his  rider  down. 

But  he  who  rode  him,  Prince,  was  not  our  liege. 
The  Prince.  What?    Not  our  liege? 


THE  PRINCE  OF  HOMBURG 


447 


Natalie.  Ob,  wonderful! 

[She  rises  and  remains  standing  beside  the 
Electeess.] 

The  Peince.  Speak  then! 

Weighty  as  gold  each  word  sinks  to  my  heart. 

Spaeeen.        Then  let  me  give  you  tidings  of  a  deed 
So  moving,  ear  has  never  heard  its  like. 
Our   country's   liege,   who,   to   remonstrance 

deaf, 
Rode  his  white  horse  again,  the  gleaming  white 
That   Froben   erstwhile   bought   for   him  in 

England, 
Became  once  more,  as  ever  was  the  case, 
The  target  for  the  foe 's  artillery. 
Scarce  could  the  members  of  his  retinue 
Within  a  ring  of  hundred  yards  approach : 
About  there  and  about,  a  stream  of  death. 
Hurtled  grenades  and  cannon-shot  and  shell. 
They  that  had  lives  to  save  fled  to  its  banks. 
He,  the  strong  swimmer,  he  alone  shrank  not. 
But  beckoning  his  friends,  unswervingly 
Made  toward  the  high  lands  whence  the  river 
came. 

The  Peince.  By  heaven,  i '  faith !    A  gruesome  sight  it  was ! 

Spaeeen.        Froben,  the  Master  of  the  Horse  who  rode 
Closest  to  him  of  all,  called  out  to  me 
* '  Curses  this  hour  on  this  white  stallion 's  hide, 
I  bought  in  London  for  a  stiff  round  sum ! 
I'd  part  with  fifty  ducats,  I'll  be  bound, 
Could  I  but  veil  him  with  a  mouse's  gray." 
With  hot  misgiving  he  draws  near  and  cries, 
* '  Highness,  your  horse  is  skittish ;  grant  me 

leave 
To  give  him  just  an  hour  of  schooling  more." 
And  leaping  from  his  sorrel  at  the  word 
He  grasps  the  bridle  of  our  liege's  beast. 
Our  liege  dismounts,  still  smiling,  and  replies : 


448 


THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 


**As  long  as  day  is  in  the  sky,  I  doubt 
If  he  will  learn  the  art  you  wish  to  teach. 
But  give  your  lesson  out  beyond  those  hills 
Where   the  foe's  gunners  will  not  heed  his 

fault." 
Thereon  he  mounts  the  sorrel,  Froben's  own. 
Returning  thence  to  where  his  duty  calls. 
But  scarce  is  Froben  mounted  on  the  white 
When  from  a  breastwork,  oh !  a  murder-shell 
Tears  him  to  earth,  tears  horse  and  rider  low. 
A  sacrifice  to  faithfulness,  he  falls; 
And  from  him  not  a  sound  more  did  we  hear. 

[Brief  pause.] 

The  Prince.  He  is  well  paid  for !    Though  I  had  ten  lives 
I  could  not  lose  them  in  a  better  cause ! 

Natalie.         Valiant  old  Froben! 

Electress  {in  tears).  Admirable  man! 

Natalie  (also  weeping). 

A  meaner  soul  might  well  deserve  our  tears  I 


The  Prince.  Enough! 
then? 


To  business!    Where's  the  Elector 


Sparren. 


The  Prince 
Sparren. 


Is  Hackelwitz  headquarters? 

Pardon,  sir ! 

The  Elector  has  proceeded  to  Berlin 

And  begs  his  generals  thence  to  follow  him. 

What?  To  Berlin?  You  mean  the  war  is  done? 

Indeed,  I  marvel  that  all  this  is  news. 

Count  Horn,  the  Swedish  general,  has  arrived ; 

And,  following  his  coming,  out  of  hand 

The  armistice  was  heralded  through  camp. 

A  conference,  if  I  discern  aright 

The  Marshal's  meaning,  is  attached  thereto: 

Perchance  that  peace  itself  may  follow  soon. 
Electress  (rising). 

Dear  God,  how  wondrously  the  heavens  clear ! 
The  Prince.  Come,  let  us  follow  straightway  to  Berlin. 

'Twould  speed  my  journey  much  if  you  could 
spare 


THE  PRINCE  OE  IIOMBURG  449 

A  little  space  for  me  within  your  coach  ?  — 
I've  just  a  dozen  words  to  write  to  Kottwitz, 
And  on  the  instant  I'll  be  at  your  side. 

[He  sits  down  and  writes.] 

Electress.     Indeed,  with  all  my  heart ! 

The  Peince  {folds  the  note  and  gives  it  to  the  Sergeant; 
then,  as  he  turns  again  to  the  Electress, 
softly  lays  his  arm  about  Natalie's  waist). 

I  have  a  wish, 
A  something  timorously  to  confide 
I  thought  I  might  give  vent  to  on  the  road. 

Natalie  (tearing  herself  away). 

Bork !    Quick !    My  scarf,  I  beg  — 

Electress.  A  wish  to  me  ? 

First  Lady-in-waiting. 

Princess,  the  scarf  is  round  your  neck. 

The  Prince  {to  the  Electress).  Indeed! 

Can  you  not  guess? 

Electress.  No  — 

The  Prince.  Not  a  syllable  ? 

Electress  {abruptly). 

What  matter?    Not  a  suppliant  on  earth 
Could  I  deny  today,  whate'er  he  ask, 
And  you,  our  battle-hero,  least  of  all ! 
Come! 

The  Prince.  Mother!     Oh,  what  did  you  speak?     Those 
words  — 
May  I  interpret  them  to  suit  me  best? 

Electress.     Be  off,  I  say !    More,  later,  as  we  ride ! 
Come,  let  me  have  your  arm. 

The  Prince.  Oh,  Caesar  Divus  I 

Lo,  I  have  set  a  ladder  to  thy  star !  )  '^ 

[He  leads  the  ladies  out.   Exeunt  omnes.] 
Vol.  IV— 29 


450 


THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 


< 


Scene  IX 

Scene:  Berlin.  Pleasure  garden  outside  the  old  palace.  In  the  hack- 
ground  the  palace  chapel  with  a  staircase  leading  up  to  it.  Tolling  of 
bells.  The  church  is  brightly  illuminated.  The  body  of  Froben  is  carried 
by  and  set  on  a  splendid  catafalque.  The  Elector,  Field-Marshal 
DoRPLiNG,  Colonel  Hennings,  Count  Truchsz  and  several  other 
colonels  and  minor  officers  enter.  From  the  opposite  side  enter  various 
officers  with  dispatches.  In  the  church  as  well  as  in  the  square  are  men, 
women  and  children  of  all  ages. 

Elector.        What  man  soever  led  the  cavalry 
Upon  the  day  of  battle,  and,  before 
The  force  of  Colonel  Hennings  could  destroy 
The  bridges  of  the  foe,  of  his  o\vn  will 
Broke  loose,  and  forced  the  enemy  to  flight 
Ere  I  gave  order  for  it,  I  assert 
That  man  deserves  that  he  be  put  to  death ; 
I   summon   him   therefore   to   be   court-mar- 
tialed.— 
Prince  Homburg,  then,  you  say,  was  not  the 
man? 

Truchsz.        No,  my  liege  lord ! 

Elector.  What  proof  have  you  of  that? 

Truchsz.        Men  of  the  cavalry  can  testify, 

Who  told  me  of  't  before  the  fight  began : 
The  Prince  fell  headlong  from  his  horse,  and, 

hurt 
At  head  and  thigh,  men  found  him  in  a  church 
Where  some  one  bound  his  deep  and  dangerous 
wounds. 

Electob.        Enough !    Our  victory  this  day  is  great, 
And  in  the  church  tomorrow  will  I  bear 
My  gratitude  to  God.    Yet  though  it  were 
Mightier  tenfold,  still  would  it  not  absolve 
Him  through  whom  chance  has  granted  it  to 

me. 
More  battles  still  than  this  have  I  to  fight, 
And  I  demand  subjection  to  the  law. 


THE  PRINCE  OF  HOMBURG  451 

Whoever  led  the  cavalry  to  battle, 
I  reaflfirm  has  forfeited  his  head. 
And  to  court-martial  herewith  order  him. — 
'  Come,  follow  me,  my  friends,  into  the  church. 

Scene  X 

The  Prince  of  Hombukg  enters  bearing  three  Swedish  flags,  followed  by 
Colonel  Kottwitz,  bearing  two,  Count  Hohenzgllern,  Captain 
GoLZ,  Count  Reuss,  each  with  a  flag;  and  several  other  officers,  cor- 
porals, and  troopers  carrying  flags,  kettle-drums  and  standards. 

DoRFLiNG  {spying  the  Prince  of  Homburg). 

The  Prince  of  Homburg!  —  Truchsz!    What 
did  you  mean? 
Elector  {amazed). 

Whence  came  you,  Prince? 
The  Prince  {stepping  forward  a  feiv  paces). 

From  Fehrbellin,  my  liege, 

And  bring  you  thence  these  trophies  of  success ! 
[i?e  lays  the  three  flags  before  him;  the  offi- 
cers, corporals  and  troopers  do  likewise, 
each  with  his  own.] 
Elector  {frigidly). 

I  hear  that  you  are  wounded,  dangerously? 

Count  Truchsz! 
The  Prince  (^az/t/).    Forgive! 

Count  Truchsz.  By  heaven,  I'm  amazed! 

The  Prince.  My  sorrel  fell  before  the  fight  began. 

This  hand  a  field-leech  bandaged  up  for  me 

Scarce  merits  that  you  call  it  wounded. 
Elector.  So  ? 

In  spite  of  it  you  led  the  cavalry? 
The  Prince  {regarding  him). 

I?    Indeed,  I!    Must  you  learn  that  from  me? 

Here  at  your  feet  I  laid  the  proof  of  that. 
Elector.        Relieve  him  of  his  sword.    He  is  a  prisoner. 
DoRFLiNG  {taken  aback). 

Whom? 


452  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

Elector  {stepping  among  the  flags). 

Ah,  God  greet  you,  Kottwitz ! 
Truchsz  {aside).  Curses  on  it! 

Kottwitz.      By  God,  I'm  utterly  — 
Elector  {looking  at  him).  What  did  you  say? 

Look,  what  a  crop  mown  for  our  glory  here !  — 
That  flag  is  of  the  Swedish  Guards,  is't  not? 
[He  takes  up  a  flag,  unwinds  it  and  studies 
it.] 
Kottwitz.      My  liege  ? 

DoRFLiNG.  My  lord  and  master? 

Elector.  Ah,  indeed  1 

And  from  the  time  of  Gustaf  Adolf  too. 
How  runs  the  inscription? 
Kottwitz.  I  believe  — 

DoRFLiNG.  "  Per  aspera  ad  astra!  '* 

Elector.         That  was  not  verified  at  Fehrbellin.     {Fause.] 
Kottwitz  {hesitantly). 

My  liege,  grant  me  a  word. 
Elector.  What  is't  you  wish? 

Take  all  the  things  —  flags,  kettle-drums  and 

standards, 
And  hang  them  in  the  church.     I  plan  to- 
morrow 
To  use  them  when  we  celebrate  our  triumph! 
[The  Elector  turns  to  the  couriers,  takes 
their  dispatches,  opens  and  reads  them.] 
Kottwitz  {aside). 

That,  by  the  living  God,  that  is  too  much ! 
[After  some  hesitation,  the  Colonel  takes 
up  his  two  flags;  the  other  officers  and 
troopers  follow  suit.  Finally,  as  the  three 
flags  of  the  Prince  remain  untouched,  he 
takes  up  these  also,  so  that  he  is  now  bear- 
ing five.] 
An  Officer  (stepping  iip  to  the  Prince). 

Prince,  I  must  beg  your  sword. 


THE  PRINCE  OF  HOMBURG  453 

HoHENZOLLERN  {carrying  his  flag).     Quiet  now,  friend. 
The  Prince.  Speak!    Am  I  dreaming?    Waking?    Living? 

Sane? 
GoLz.  Prince,  give  your  sword,  I  counsel,  and  say 

nothing. 
The  Prince.  A  prisoner?     I? 
HoHENzoLLERN.  Indeed ! 

GoLz.  You  heard  him  say  it  1 

The  Prince.  And  may  one  know  the  reason  why? 
HoHENzoLLERN  (emphatically).  Not  now! 

.  We  told  you,  at  the  time,  you  pressed  too  soon 
Into  the  battle,  when  the  order  was 
You  should  not  quit  your  place  till  you  were 
called. 
The  Prince.  Help,  help,  friends,  help!    I'm  going  mad! 
GoLZ  {interrupting).  Calm!  calm! 

The  Prince.  Were  the  Mark's  armies  beaten  then? 
HoHENZOLLERN  {ivith  a  stamp  of  his  foot).  No  matter! 

The  ordinance  demands  obedience. 
The  Prince  {bitterly). 

So  —  so,  so,  so! 
HoHENzoLLERN  {tuming  away  from  him). 

It  will  not  cost  your  head. 
GoLZ  {similarly). 

Tomorrow  morning,  maybe,  you'll  be  free. 
[T/ie  Elector  folds  his  letters  and  returns 
to  the  circle  of  officers.] 
The  Prince  {after  he  has  unbuckled  his  sword). 

My  cousin  Frederick  hopes  to  play  the  Brutus 
And  sees  himself,  on  linen  drawn  with  chalk. 
Already  seated  in  the  curule  chair  — 
The   foreground  filled  with   Swedish  battle- 
flags. 
And  on  his  desk  the  ordinance  of  the  Mark. 
By  God,  in  me  he  shall  not  find  a  son 
Who  shall  revere  him  'neath  the  hangman's 
axe! 


454  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

A  German  heart  of  honest  cut  and  grain, 
I  look  for  kindness  and  nobility; 
And  when  he  stands  before  me,  frigidly, 
This  moment,  like  some  ancient  man  of  stone, 
I'm  sorry  for  him  and  I  pity  him. 

[He  (jives  his  sword  to  the  officer  and  goes 
out.] 
Elector.        Bring  him  to  camp  at  Fehrbellin,  and  there 
Assemble  the  court-martial  for  his  trial. 
[He  enters  the  church.     The  flags  follow 
him,  and,  while  he  and  his  retinue  kneel 
in  prayer  at  Froben's  coffin,  are  fastened 
to  the  pilasters.    Funeral  music] 


ACT  III 

Scene:    Fehrbellin.    A  prison. 

Scene  I 

The  Prince  of  Hombukg.     Two  troopers  as  guards  in  the  rear.    Count 
HOHENZOLLEBN  enters. 

The  Prince.  Faith,  now,  friend  Harry  1     Welcome,  man, 
you  are! 

"Well,  then,  I'm  free  of  my  imprisonment? 
HoHENZOLLERN  (amazed) . 

Lord  in  the  heavens  be  praised ! 
The  Prince.  What  was  that? 

HoHENZOLLERN.  Free  ? 

So  then  he's  sent  you  back  your  sword  again? 
The  Prince.  Me?    No. 

HoHENZOLLERN.  No  ? 

The  Prince.  No. 

HoHENZOLLERN.  Then  how  can  you  be  free? 


THE  PRINCE  OF  HOMBURG  455 

ThePeince  {after  a  pause). 

I    thought    that    you    were    bringing    it. — 
What  of  it? 
HoHENzoLL.  I  know  of  nothing. 
The  Prince.  Well,  you  heard :    What  of  it? 

He  '11  send  some  other  one  to  let  me  know. 

[He  turns  and  brings  chairs.] 

Sit  down.    Now  come  and  tell  me  all  the  news. 

Has  he  returned,  the  Elector,  from  Berlin? 
HoHENZOLL.  Yes.     Tester  eve. 
The  Prince.  And  did  they  celebrate 

The  victory  as  planned?  —  Assuredly! 

And  he  was  at  the  church  himself,  the  Elector? 
HoHENzoLL.  With  the  Electress  and  with  Natalie. 

The  church  was  wonderfully  bright  with  lights ; 

Upon  the  palace-square  artillery 

Through   the   Te  Deum   spoke   with   solemn 
splendor. 

The  Swedish  flags  and  standards  over  us 

Swung  from   the  church's  columns,  trophy- 
wise. 

And,  on  the  sovereign's  express  command. 

Your  name  was  spoken  from  the  chancel  high, 

Your  name  was  spoken,  as  the  victor's  name. 
The  Prince.  I  heard  that. — Well,  what  other  news  ?    What 's 
yours? 

Your  face,  my  friend,  is  scarcely  frolicsome. 
HoHENzoLL.  Have  you  seen  anybody? 
The  Prince.  Golz,  just  now, 

I'  the  Castle  where,  you  know,  I  had  my  trial. 

[Pause.] 
Hohenzollern  {regarding  him  doubtfully). 

What  do  you  think  of  your  position,  Arthur, 

Since  it  has  suffered  such  a  curious  change  ? 
The  Prince.  What  you  and  Golz  and  even  the  judges  think — 

The  Elector  has  fulfilled  what  duty  asked, 

And  now  he'll  do  as  well  the  heart's  behest. 


<r 


456  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

Thus  he'll  address  me,  gravely:     You  have 

erred 
(Put  in  a  word  perhaps   of  "death**  and 

"  fortress  "), 
But  I  grant  you  your  liberty  again  — 
And  round  the  sword  that  won  his  victory 
Perhaps   there'll  even  twine   some  mark  of 

grace ; 
If  not  that,  good ;  I  did  not  merit  that. 

HoHENzoLL.  Oh,  Arthur !  [He  pauses.] 

The  Prince.  Well? 

HoHENzoLLERN.  Are  you  so  very  sure? 

The  Prince.  So  I  have  laid  it  out.     I  know  he  loves  me. 

He  loves  me  like  a  son;  since  early  childhood 
A  thousand  signs  have  amply  proven  that. 
What  doubt  is  in  your  heart  that  stirs  you  so? 
Has  he  not  ever  seemed  to  take  more  joy 
UA^^   ^  Than  I  myself  to  see  my  young  fame  grow? 
«  All  that  I  am,  am  I  not  all  through  him? 

And  he  should  now  unkindly  tread  in  dust 
The  plant  himself  has  nurtured,  just  because 
Too  swiftly  opulent  it  flowered  forth? 
I'll  not  believe  his  worst  foe  could  think  that  — 
And  far  less  you  who  know  and  cherish  him. 

HoHENzoLLERN  (significantly). 

Arthur,    you've    stood   your   trial   in    court- 
martial. 
And  you  believe  that  still? 

The  Prince.  Because  of  it ! 

No  one,  by  heaven  alive,  would  go  so  far 
Who  did  not  have  a  pardon  up  his  sleeve ! 
Even  there,  before  the  judgment  bar,  it  was  — 
Even  there  it  was,  my  confidence  returned. 
Come,  was  it  such  a  capital  offense 
Two  little  seconds  ere  the  order  said 
To  have  laid  low  the  stoutness  of  the  Swede? 
What  other  felony  is  on  my  conscience? 


THE  PRINCE  OF  HOMBURG  457 

And  could  he  summon  me,  unfeelingly, 
Before  this  board  of  owl-like  judges,  chanting 
Their  litanies  of  bullets  and  the  grave, 
Did  he  not  purpose  with  a  sovereign  word 
To  step  into  their  circle  like  a  god? 
No,  he  is  gathering  this  night  of  cloud 
About  my  head,  my  friend,  that  he  may  dawTi 
Athwart  the  gloomy  twilight  like  the  sun! 
And,  faith,  this  pleasure  I  begrudge  him  not ! 

HoHENZOLL.  And  yet,  they  say,  the  court  has  spoken  judg- 
ment. 

The  Prince.  I  heard  so :  death. 

HoHENzoLLERN  (amazed).    You  know  it  then  —  so  soon? 

The  Prince.  Golz,  who  was  present  when  they  brought  the 
verdict 
Gave  me  report  of  how  the  judgment  fell. 

Hohenzoll.  My  God,  man!    And  it  stirred  you  not  at  all? 

The  Prince.  Me?     Why,  not  in  the  least! 

Hohenzollern.  You  maniac! 

On  what  then  do  you  prop  your  confidence  ? 

The  Prince.  On  what  I  feel  of  him !    [He  rises.]    No  more, 

I  beg. 

Why  should  I  fret  with  insubstantial  doubts? 

[He  bethinks  himself  and  sits  down  again. 

Pause.] 

The  court  was  forced  to  make  its  verdict  death ; 

For  thus   the   statute   reads  by  which   they 

judge. 
But  ere  he  let  that  sentence  be  fulfilled  — 
Ere,  at  a  kerchief's  fall,  he  yields  this  heart 
That  loves  him  truly,  to  the  muskets'  fire. 
Ere  that,  I  say,  he'll  lay  his  own  breast  bare 
And  spill  his  own  blood,  drop  by  drop,  in  dust. 

Hohenzoll.  But,  Arthur,  I  assure  you  — 

The  Prince  (petulantly).  Oh,  my  dear! 

Hohenzoll.  The  Marshal  — 

The  Prince  {still  petulantly).     Come,  enough! 


458  THE  GEEMAN  CLASSICS 

HoHENzoLLERN.  Hear  two  words  more ! 

If  those  make  no  impression,  I  '11  be  mute. 
The  Prince  {turning  to  him  again). 

I  told  you,  I  know  all.     Well,  now,  what  is  it? 
HoHENzoLL.  Most  strauge  it  is,  a  moment  since,  the  Marshal 

Delivered  him  the  warrant  for  your  death. 

It  leaves  him  liberty  to  pardon  you, 

But  he,  instead,  has  given  the  command 

That  it  be  brought  him  for  his  signature. 
The  Prince.  No  matter,  I  repeat! 
HoHENzoLLERN.  No  matter? 

The  Prince.  For  — 

His  signature? 
HoHENzoLLERN.  By  faith,  I  do  assure  you ! 

The  Prince.  The  warrant?  —  No!     The  verdict  — 
HOHENZOLLERN.  The  death  warrant. 

The  Prince.  Who  was  it  told  you  that? 
HOHENZOLLERN.  The  Marshal. 

The  Prince.  When? 

HOHENZOLL.    Just  UOW. 

The  Prince.    Returning  from  the  sovereign? 

HoHENzoLL.  The  stairs  descending  from  the  sovereign. 
And  added,  when  he  saw  my  startled  face. 
That  nothing  yet  was  lost,  and  that  the  dawn 
Would  bring  another  day  for  pardoning. 
But  the  dead  pallor  of  his  lips  disproved 
Their  spoken  utterance,  with,  I  fear  it  —  no ! 

The  Prince  (rising). 

He  could  —  I'll  not  believe  it!  —  bring  to  birth 
Such  monstrous  resolutions  in  his  heart? 
For  a  defect,  scarce  visible  to  the  lens. 
In  the  bright  diamond  he  but  just  received, 

,  Tread  in  the  dust  the  giver?     'Twere  a  deed 

To  burn  the  Dey  of  Algiers  white :  with  wings 
Like  those  that  silver-gleam  on  cherubim 
To  dizen  Sardanapalus,  and  cast 


THE  PRINCE  OF  HOMBURG  459 

The  assembled  tyrannies  of  ancient  Rome, 

Guiltless  as  babes  that  die  on  mother-breast, 

Over  upon  the  favor-hand  of  God! 
HoHENzoLLERN  {who  has  Ukewise  risen). 

My  friend,  you  must  convince  yourself  of  that ! 
The  Prince.  The  Marshal  then  was  silent,  said  nought  else? 
HoHENzoLL.  What  should  he  say? 

The  Prince.  Oh,  heaven,  my  hope,  my  hope ! 

HoHENzoLL.  Come,  have  you  ever  done  a  thing,  perchance, 

Be  it  unconsciously  or  consciously. 

That  might  have  given  his  lofty  heart  offense  ? 
The  Prince.  Never! 
HoHENzoLLERN.  Considcr ! 

The  Prince.  Never,  by  high  heaven  I 

The  very  shadow  of  his  head  was  sacred. 
HoHENzoLL.  Do  uot  be  angry,  Arthur,  if  I  doubt. 

Count  Horn  has  come,  the  Ambassador   of 
Sweden, 

And  I  am  told  with  all  authority 

His  business  concerns  the  Princess  Orange. 

A  word  her  aunt,  the  Electress,  spoke,  they  say. 

Has  cut  the  sovereign  to  the  very  quick ; 

They  say,  the  lady  has  already  chosen. 

Are  you  in  no  way  tangled  up  in  this? 
The  Prince.  Dear  God,  what  are  you  saying? 
HoHENzoLLERN.  Are  you?    Are  you? 

The  Prince.  Oh,  friend,  I  am!     And  now  all  things  are 
clear ! 

It  is  that  wooing  that  destroys  me  quite. 

I  am  accountable  if  she  refuse. 

Because  the  Princess  is  betrothed  to  me. 
Hohenzoll.  You  feather-headed  fool,  what  have  you  done? 

How  often  have  I  warned  you,  loyally ! 
The  Prince.  Oh,  friend !    Then  help  me !    Save  me !    I  am 

lost! 
Hohenzoll.  Ay,  what  expedient  saves  us  in  this  gloom? 

Come,  would  you  like  to  see  her  aunt,  'the 
Electress? 


460  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

The  Prince  (turning). 

Ho,  watch! 
Trooper  (in  the  background).    Here! 

The  Prince.  Go,  and  call  your  officer ! 

[He  hastily  takes  a  cloak  from  the  wall  and 
puts  on  a  plumed  hat  lying  on  the  table.] 
HoHENZOLLERN  (as  he  assists  him) 

1         Adroitly  used,  this  step  may  spell  salvation. 

/  For  if  the  Elector  can  but  make  the  peace, 

/J^  \        By  the  determined  forfeit,  with  King  Charles, 

.yr  ^  His  heart,  you  soon  shall  see,  will  turn  to  you, 

And  in  brief  time  you  will  be  free  once  more. 

Scene  II 
The  officer  enters.    The  others  as  before. 

The  Prince  (to  the  officer). 

Stranz,  they  have  put  me  in  your  custody ; 

Grant  me  my  freedom  for  an  hour's  time. 

I  have  some  urgent  business  on  my  mind. 
Officer.         Not  in  my  custody  are  you,  my  lord. 

The  order  given  me  declares  that  I 

Shall  leave  you  free  to  go  where  you  desire. 
The  Prince.  Most  odd!     Then  I  am  not  a  prisoner? 
Officer.         Your  word  of  honor  is  a  fetter,  too. 
Hohenzollern  {preparing  to  go). 

'Twill  do !     No  matter. 
The  Prince.  So.    Then  fare  you  well. 

Hohenzoll.  The  fetter  follows  hard  upon  the  Prince. 
The  Prince.  I  go  but  to  the  Castle,  to  my  aunt. 

And  in  two  minutes  I  am  back  again. 

[Exeunt  omnes.] 

Scene  III 

Room  of  the  Electress.     The  EiiECTRESS  and  Natalie  enter. 

Electress.     Come,  daughter  mine,  come  now !    This  is  your 
hour. 
Count  Gustaf  Horn,  the  Swedes'  ambassador, 


THE  PRINCE  OF  HOMBURG  461 

And  all  the  company  have  left  the  Castle; 
There  is  a  light  in  Uncle's  study  still. 
Come,  put  your  kerchief  on  and  steal  on  him, 
And  see  if  you  can  rescue  yet  your  friend. 

[They  are  about  to  go.] 

Scene  IV 
A  lady-in-waiting  enters.     Others  as  before. 

Lady-in-waiting. 

Madam,  the  Prince  of  Homburg's  at  the  door. 

But  I  am  hardly  sure  that  I  saw  right. 
Electress.     Dear  God ! 
Natalie.  Himself  ? 

Electress.  Is  he  not  prisoner? 

Lady-in-waiting. 

He  stands  without,  in  plumed  hat  and  cloak. 

And  begs  in  urgent  terror  to  be  heard. 
Electress  (distressed). 

Impulsive  boy !     To  go  and  break  his  word ! 
Natalie.         Who  knows  what  may  torment  him? 
Electress  (after  a  moment  in  thought).  Let  him  come ! 

[She  seats  herself.] 

Scene  V 
The  Prince  of  Homburg  enters.    The  others  as  before. 

The  Prince  (throwing  himself  at  the  feet  of  the  YiL.ECTiiESs). 

Oh,  mother! 
Electress.  Prince !    What  are  you  doing  here? 

The  Prince.  Oh,  let  me  clasp  your  knees,  oh,  mother  mine  I 
Electress  (with  suppressed  emotion). 

You  are  a  prisoner.  Prince,  and  you  come 
hither? 

Why  will  you  heap  new  guilt  upon  the  old  ? 
The  Prince  (urgently). 

Oh,  do  you  know  what  they  have  done  ? 


462  THE  GEEMAN  CLASSICS 

Electress.  Yes,  all. 

But  what  can  I  do,  helpless  I,  for  you? 
The  Prince.  You  would  not  speak  thus,  mother  mine,  if 
death 
Had  ever  terribly  encompassed  you 
As  it  doth  me.     With  potencies  of  heaven, 
You  and  my  lady,  these  who  serve  you,  all 
The  world  that  rings  me  round,  seem  blest  to 

save. 
The  very  stable-boy,  the  meanest,  least. 
That  tends  your  horses,  pleading  I  could  hang 
About  his  neck,  crying :    Oh,  save  me,  thou ! 
I,  only  I,  alone  on  God 's  wide  earth 
Am  helpless,  desolate,  and  impotent. 
Electress.     You  are  beside  yourself !    What  has  occurred  ? 
The  Prince.  Oh,  on  the  way  that  led  me  to  your  side, 

I  saw  in  torchlight  where  they  dug  the  grave 
That  on  the  morrow  shall  receive  my  bones ! 
Look,  Aunt,  these  eyes  that  gaze  upon  you  now, 
These  eyes  they  would  eclipse  with  night,  this 

breast 
Pierce  and  transpierce  with  murderous  mus- 

ketiy. 
The  windows  on  the  Market  that  shall  close 
Upon  the  weary  show  are  all  reserved ; 
And  one  who,  standing  on  life 's  pinnacle, 
Today  beholds  the  future  like  a  realm 
Of  faery  spread  afar,  tomorrow  lies 
Stinking  within  the  compass  of  two  boards. 
And  over  him  a  stone  recounts :    He  was. 
{The  Princess,  who  until  now  has  stood  in 
the  background  supporting  herself  on  the 
shoulder  of  one  of  the  ladies-in-waiting , 
sinks  into  a  chair,  deeply  moved  at  his 
words,  and  begins  to  iveep.] 
Electress.     My  son,  if  such  should  be  the  will  of  heaven. 
You  will  go  forth  with  courage  and  calm  soul. 


\£^ 


THE  PRINCE  OF  HOMBURG  463 

The  Prince.  God 's  world,  0  mother,  is  so  beautiful ! 
Oh,  let  me  not,  before  my  hour  strike. 
Descend,  I  plead,  to  those  black  shadow-forms ! 
Why,  why  can  it  be  nothing  but  the  bullet? 
Let  him  depose  me  from  my  offices. 
With  rank  cashierment,  if  the  law  demands, 
Dismiss  me  from  the  army.     God  of  heaven! 
Since  I  beheld  my  grave,  life,  life,  I  want,       luryt^  ^^' 
And  do  not  ask  if  it  be  kept  with  honor.  ...wu'^^^J*^ 

Electress.     Arise,  my  son,  arise !    What  were  those  words  ? 
You  are  too  deeply  moved.    Control  yourself ! 

The  Prince.  Oh,  Aunt,  not  ere  you  promise  on  your  soul, 
With  a  prostration  that  shall  save  my  life 
Pleading  to  go  before  the  sovereign  presence. 
Hedwig,  your  childhood  friend,  gave  me  to  you, 
Dying  at  Homburg,  saying  as  she  died : 
Be  you  his  mother  when  I  am  no  more. 
Moved  to  the  depths,  kneeling  beside  her  bed, 
Over  her  spent  hand  bending,  you  replied: 
Yea,  he  shall  be  to  me  as  mine  own  cliild. 
Now,  I  remind  you  of  the  vow  you  made ! 
Go  to  him,  go,  as  though  I  were  your  child, 
Crying,  I  plead  for  mercy !    Set  him  free ! 
Oh,  and  return  to  me,  and  say :     'Tis  so ! 

Electress  (iveeping) . 

Beloved  son !    All  has  been  done,  erewhile. 
But  all  my  supplications  were  in  vain. 

The  Prince.  I  give  up  every  claim  to  happiness. 
And  tell  him  this,  forget  it  not,  that  I 
Desire  Natalie  no  more,  for  her 
All  tenderness  within  my  heart  is  quenched. 
Free  as  the  doe  upon  the  meads  is  she. 
Her  hand  and  lips,  as  though  I'd  never  been, 
Freely  let  her  bestow,  and  if  it  be 
The  Swede  Karl  Gustaf ,  I  commend  her  choice. 
I  will  go  seek  my  lands  upon  the  Rhine. 
There  will  I  build  and  raze  again  to  earth 
With  sweating  brow,  and  sow  and  gather  in. 


464  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

As  though  for  wife  and  babe,  enjoy  alone ; 
And  when  the  harvest's  gathered,  sow  again, 
And  round  and  round  the  treadmill  chase  my 

days 
Until  at  evening  they  sink  down,  and  die. 

Electkess.     Enough!     Now  take  your  way  home  to  your 
prison  — 
That  is  the  first  demand  my  favor  makes. 

The  Prince  (rises  and  turns  toward  the  Princess). 

Poor  little  girl,  you  weep !     The  sun  today 
Lights  all  your  expectations  to  their  grave ! 
Your  heart  decided  from  the  first  on  me ; 
Lideed,  your  look  declares^  that,  true  as  gold, 
You  ne  'er  shall  dedicate  your  heart  anew. 
Oh,  what  can  I,  poor  devil,  say  to  comfort? 
Go  to  the  Maiden's  Chapter  on  the  Main, 
I  counsel  you,  go  to  your  cousin  Thurn. 
Seek  in  the  hills  a  boy,  light-curled  as  I, 
Buy  him  with  gold  and  silver,  to  your  breast 
Press  him,  and  teach  his  lips  to  falter :   Mother. 
And  when  he  grows  to  manhood,  show  him  well 
How  men  draw  shut  the  eyelids  of  the  dead. 
That  is  the  only  joy  that  lies  your  way ! 

Natalie  (bravely  and  impressively,  as  she  rises  and  lays 
her  hand  in  his). 
Return,  young  hero,  to  your  prison  walls, 
And,  on  your  passage,  imperturbably 
Regard  once  more  the  grave  they  dug  for  you. 
It  is  not  gloomier,  nor  more  wide  at  all 
Than  those  the  battle  showed  a  thousand  times. 
Meanwhile,  since  I  am  true  to  you  till  death, 
A  saving  word  I  '11  chance,  unto  my  kin. 
It  may  avail,  perhaps,  to  move  his  heart 
And  disenthrall  you  from  all  misery. 

[Pause.] 


THE  PRINCE  OF  HOMBURG 


465 


The  Prince  {folding  Ms  hands,  as  he  stands  lost  in  con- 
templation of  her). 
An  you  had  pinions  on  your  shoulders,  maid, 
Truly  I  should  be  sure  you  were  an  angel ! 
Dear  God,  did  I  hear  right  ?  You  speak  for  me  1 
Where  has  the  quiver  of  your  speech  till  now 
Lain  hid,  dear  child,  that  you  should  dare 

approach 
The  sovereign  in  matters  such  as  this? 
Oh,  light  of  hope,  reviving  me  once  more! 

Natalie.         The   darts   that   find   the   marrow   God  will 

hand  me !  ^ 

But  if  the  Elector  cannot  move  the  law's 
Outspoken  word,  cannot  —  so  be  it !     Then 
Bravely  to  him  the  brave  man  will  submit. 
And  he,  the  conqueror  a  thousand  times, 
Living,  will  know  to  conquer  too  in  death ! 

Electress.     Make  haste!     The  favorable  hour  flies  by! 

The  Prince.  Now  may  all  holy  spirits  guard  your  way ! 

Farewell,  farewell !    Whate  'er  the  outcome  be, 
Grant  me  a  word  to  tell  me  how  you  fared. 

[Exeunt  omnes.] 


ACT   IV 

Scene:    Room  of  the  Elector. 


Scene  I 

The  Elector  is  standing  with  documents  in  his  hand  near  a  table  set 
with  lights.  Natalie  enters  through  the  centre  door  and,  still  some 
distance  away,  falls  on  her  knees  to  him. 

Natalie.         My  noble  uncle  Frederick  of  the  Mark! 
Elector  (laying  the  papers  aside). 

My  Natalie!  [He  seeks  to  raise  her.] 

Natalie.  No,  no ! 

Elector.  What  is  your  wish  ? 

Vol.  IV.— 30 


466 


THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 


Natalie.         As  it  behooves  me,  at  your  feet  in  dust 

To  plead  your  pardon  for  my  cousin  Homburg. 
Not  for  myself  I  wish  to  know  him  safe  — 
My  heart  desires  him  and  confesses  it  — 
Not  for  myself  I  wish  to  know  him  safe ; 
Let  him  go  wed  whatever  wife  he  will. 
I  only  ask,  dear  uncle,  that  he  live, 
Free,  independent,  unallied,  unbound, 
Even  as  a  flower  in  which  I  find  delight ; 
For  this  I  plead,  my  sovereign  lord  and  friend, 
And  such  entreaty  you  will  heed,  I  know. 

Elector  {raisin (i  her  to  her  feet). 

My  little  girl !  What  words  escaped  your  lips  ? 
Are  you  aware  of  how  your  cousin  Homburg 
Lately  offended  f 

Natalie.  But,  dear  uncle ! 

Elector.  Well  f 

Was  it  so  slight? 

Natalie.  Oh,  this  blond  fault,  blue-eyed, 

Which  even  ere  it  faltered :     Lo,  I  pray ! 
Forgiveness  should  raise  up  from  the  earth  — 
Surely  you  will  not  spurn  it  with  your  foot? 
Why,  for  its  mother's  sake,  for  her  who  bore  it, 
You'll    press    it    to    your    breast    and    cry: 

"  Weep  not! 
For  you  are  dear  as  loyalty  herself. ' ' 
Was  it  not  ardor  for  your  name's  renown 
That  lured  him  in  the  fight's  tumultuous  midst 
To  burst  apart  the  confines  of  the  law? 
And  oh,  once  he  had  burst  the  bonds  asunder, 
Trod  he  not  bravely  on  the  serpent's  head? 
To  crown  him  first  because  he  triumphs,  then 
Put  him  to  death  —  that,  surely,  history 
Will  not  demand  of  you.     Dear  uncle  mine. 
That  were  so  stoical  and  so  sublime 
That  men  might  almost  deem  it  was  inhuman ! 
And  God  made  nothing  more  humane  than  you. 


THE  PRINCE  OF  HOMBURG 


467 


Natalie. 
Elector. 


Natalie. 


Elector.        Sweet  child,  consider!     If  I  were  a  tyrant, 
I  am  indeed  aware  your  words  ere  now 
Had  thawed  the  heart  beneath  the  iron  breast. 
But  this  I  put  to  you :    Have  I  the  right 
To   quash   the   verdict   which   the   court  has 

passed? 
What  would  the  issue  be  of  such  an  act? 
For  whom?     For  you? 

Forme?     No!     Bah!     Forme! 
My  girl,  know  you  no  higher  law  than  me ! 
Have  you  no  inkling  of  a  sanctuary 
That  in  the  camp  men  call  the  fatherland? 
My  liege !     Why  fret  your  soul  ?     Because  of 

such 
Upstirring  of  your  grace,  this  fatherland 
Will  not  this  moment  crash  to  rack  and  ruin! 
The  camp  has  been  your  school.     And,  look, 

what  there 
You  term  unlawfulness,  this  act,  this  free 
Suppression  of  the  verdict  of  the  court, 
Appears  to  me  the  very  soul  of  law. 
The  laws  of  war,  I  am  aware,  must  rule ; 
The  heart,  however,  has  its  charter,  too. 
The  fatherland  your  hands  upbuilt  for  us, 
My  noble  uncle,  is  a  fortress  strong, 
And  other  greater  storms  indeed  will  bear 
Than  this  unnecessary  victory. 
Majestically  through  the  years  to  be 
It  shall  uprise,  beneath  your  line  expand, 
Grow  beautiful  witli  towers,  luxuriant, 
A  fairy  country,  the  felicity 
Of  those  who  love  it,  and  the  dread  of  foes. 
It  does  not  need  the  cold  cementing  seal 
Of  a  friend's  life-blood  to  outlast  the  calm 
And  glorious  autumn  of  my  uncle 's  days ! 

Elector.        And  cousin  Homburg  thinks  this? 

Natalie.  Cousin  Homburg? 


468  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

Elector.        Does  he  believe  it  matters  not  at  all 

If  license  rule  the  fatherland,  or  law? 
Natalie.         This  poor  dear  boy! 
Elector.  Well,  now? 

Natalie.  Oh,  nncle  dear. 

To  that  I  have  no  answer  save  my  tears ! 
Elector  {in  surprise). 

Why  that,  my  little  girl  ?     What  has  befallen  ? 
Natalie  {falteringly). 

He   thinks   of   nothing   now   but   one   thing: 
rescue ! 

The  barrels  at  the  marksmen's  shoulders  peer 
J,..  J  So  ghastlily,  that,  giddy  and  amazed, 

0\<'^,  Desire  is  mute,  save  one  desire :    To  live. 

The  whole  great  nation  of  the  Mark  might 
\^v^      -p  sink 

I    ^    (^      '  To  wrack  mid  flare  and  thunderbolt;  and  he 

^^    ^  Stand  by  nor  even  ask :  What  comes  to  pass  ?  — 

Oh,  what  a  hero 's  heart  have  you  brought  low  ? 
[She  turns  away,  sobbing.] 
Elector  {utterly  amazed). 

No,  dearest  Natalie !     No,  no,  indeed ! 

Impossible!  —  He  pleads  for  clemency? 
Natalie.  If  you  had  only,  only  not  condemned  him! 

Elector.         Come,  tell  me,  come !    He  pleads  for  clemency  ? 

What  has  befallen,  child?     Why  do  you  sob? 

You  met?     Come,  tell  me  all.    You  spoke  with 
him? 
Natalie  {pressed  against  his  breast). 

In  my  aunt's  chambers  but  a  moment  since. 

Whither  in  mantle,  lo,  and  plumed  hat 

Stealthily    through    the    screening    dusk    he 
came  — 

Furtive,  perturbed,  abashed,  unworthy  all, 

A  miserable,  pitiable  sight. 

I  never  guessed  a  man  could  sink  so  low 

AVhom  history  applauded  as  her  hero. 


THE  PRINCE  OF  HOMBURG  469 

For  look  —  I  am  a  woman  and  I  shrink 
From  the  mere  worm  that  draws  too  near  my 

foot; 
But  so  undone,  so  void  of  all  control, 
So  unheroic  quite,  though  lion-like 
Death  fiercely  came,  he  should  not  find  me 

thus!  ~7  €     Me 

Oh,  what  is  human  greatness,  human  fame !    (   ^  (yi^*'*' 
Electoe  (confused).  )1Un^ 

Well,  then,  by  God  of  heaven  and  of  earth ! 

Take  courage,  then,  my  girl,  for  he  is  free ! 
Natalie.         What,  my  liege  lord? 
Elector.  I  pardon  him,  I  say ! 

I'll  send  the  necessary  word  at  once. 
Natalie.  Oh,  dearest,  is  it  really  true? 

Elector.  You  heard. 

Natalie.         You  will  forgive  him?     And  he  need  not  die' 
Elector.        Upon  my  word !     I  swear  it !     How  shall  I 

Oppose  myself  to  such  a  warrior's  judgment? 

Within  my  heart  of  hearts,  as  you  know  well,  / 

I  deeply  do  esteem  his  inner  sense ; 

If  he  can  say  the  verdict  is  unjust,  . 

I  cancel  the  indictment ;  he  is  free !  ^ 

[He  brings  her  a  chair.] 

Will  you  sit  here  and  wait  a  little  while? 
[He  goes  to  the  table,  seats  himself  and 
writes.   Pause.] 
Natalie  (softly). 

Why  dost  thou  knock  so  at  thy  house,  my 
heart? 
Elector  (writing). 

The  Prince  is  over  in  the  Castle? 
Natalie.  Pardon ! 

He  has  returned  to  his  captivity. 
Elector  (finishes  his  letter  and  seals  it;  thereupon  he  re- 
turns with  the  letter  to  the  Princess). 

Well,  well,  my  little  niece,  my  daughter,  wept ! 


470  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

And  I,  whose  place  it  is  to  make  her  glad 
Was  forced  to  cloud  the  heaven  of  her  fair 
eyes !  [He  puts  his  arm  about  her.] 

Will  you  go  bring  the  note  to  him  yourself? 
Natalie.         How?    To  the  City  Hall? 
Elector  {presses  the  letter  into  her  hand). 

Why  not?    Ho,  lackeys! 
[Enter  lackeys.] 
Go,  have  the  carriage  up !    Her  ladyship 
Has  urgent  business  with  Colonel  Homburg. 

[The  lackeys  go  out.] 
Now  he  can  thank  you  for  his  life  forthwith. 

[He  embraces  her.] 
Dear  child,  and  do  you  like  me  now  once  more  ? 
Natalie  {after  a  pause). 

I  do  not  know  and  do  not  seek  to  know 
What  woke  your  favor,  liege,  so  suddenly. 
But  truly  this,  I  feel  this  in  my  heart. 
You  would  not  make  ignoble  sport  of  me. 
The  letter  hold  whate'er  it  may  —  I  trust 
That  it  hold  pardon  —  and  I  thank  you  for  it. 

[She  kisses  his  hand.] 
Elector.        Indeed,  my  little  girl,  indeed.    As  sure 
As  pardon  lies  in  Cousin  Homburg 's  wish. 


Scene  II 

Room  of  the  Princess.    Enter  Princess  Natalie,  followed  by  two  ladies- 
in-waiting  and  Captain  of  Cavalry,  Count  Reuss. 

Natalie  {precipitantly) . 

What  is  it.  Count?    About  my  regiment? 

Is  it  of  moment?    Can  it  wait  a  day? 
Reuss  {handing  her  a  letter). 

Madam,  a  note  for  you  from  Colonel  Kottwitz. 
Natalie  {opening  it). 

Quick,  give  it  me !    What's  in  it? 


THE  PRINCE  OF  HOMBURG 


471 


Rbuss.  a  petition, 

Frankly  addressed,  though  deferentially. 
As    you    will    note,    to    our    liege    lord,    his 

Highness, 
In  furtherance  of  our  chief,  the  Prince  of 
Homburg. 

Natalie  (reading). 

*'  Petition,  loyally  presented  by 

The  regiment  of  Princess  Orange  '  * —  so. 

[Pause.] 
This   document  —  whose   hand   composed   it, 
pray? 

Reuss.  As  the  formations  of  the  dizzy  script 

May   let   you   guess,   by   none   but    Colonel 

Kottwitz. 
His  noble  name  stands  foremost  on  the  list. 

Natalie.         The  thirty  signatures  which  follow  it? 

Reuss.  The  names  of  officers,  most  noble  lady. 

Each  following  each  according  to  his  rank. 

Natalie.         And  they  sent  me  the  supplication  —  me  ? 

Reuss.  My  lady,  most  submissively  to  beg 

If  you,  our  colonel,  likewise,  at  their  head 
Will  fill  the  space  left  vacant,  with  your  name  ? 

[Pause.] 

Natalie.         Indeed,  I  hear,  the  Prince,  my  noble  kinsman. 
By  our  lord 's  own  volition  shall  be  freed. 
Wherefore  there  scarce  is  need  for  such  a  step. 

Rbuss  (delighted). 

What?    Truly? 

Natalie.  Yet  I'll  not  deny  my  hand 

Upon  a  document,  which,  wisely  used, 
May  prove  a  weight  upon  the  scales  to  turn 
Our  sovereign's  decision  —  even  prove 
Welcome,  mayhap,  to  introduce  the  issue. 
According  to  your  wish,  therefore,  I  set 
Myself  here  at  your  head  and  write  my  name. 
[She  goes  to  a  desk  and  is  about  to  write.] 


472  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

Reuss.  Indeed,  you  have  our  lively  gratitude ! 

[Pause.] 

Natalie  {turning  to  him  again). 

My  regiment  alone  I  find,  Count  Reuss ! 
Why  do  I  miss  the  Bomsdorf  Cuirassiers 
And  the  dragoons  of  Gotz  and  Anhalt-Pless  ? 

Reuss.  Not,   as   perchance   you   fear,   because   their 

hearts 
Are  cooler  in  their  throbbing  than  our  own. 
It  proves  unfortunate  for  our  petition 
That  Kottwitz  is  in  garrison  apart 
At  Arnstein,  while  the  other  regiments 
Are  quartered  in  the  city  here.    Wherefore 
The  document  lacks  freedom  easily 
In  all  directions  to  expand  its  force. 

Natalie.         Yet,  as  it  stands,  the  plea  seems  all  too  thin. — 
Are  you  sure.  Count,  if  you  were  on  the  spot 
To  interview  the  gentlemen  now  here, 
That  they  as  well  would  sign  the  document  ? 

Reuss.  Here  in  the  city,  madam  ?    Head  for  head ! 

The  entire  cavalry  would  pledge  itself 
With  signatures.    By  God,  I  do  believe 
That  a  petition  might  be  safely  launched 
Amid  the  entire  army  of  the  Mark ! 

Natalie  {after  a  pause). 

Why  does  not  some  one  send  out  oflScers 
To  carry  on  the  matter  in  the  camp? 

Reuss.  Pardon !    The  Colonel  put  his  foot  on  that. 

He  said  that  he  desired  to  do  no  act 
That  men  might  christen  with  an  ugly  name. 

Natalie.         Queer  gentleman !    Now  bold,  now  timorous ! 
But  it  occurs  to  me  that  happily 
The  Elector,  pressed  by  other  business. 
Charged   me    to   issue   word   that   Kottwitz, 

cribbed 
Too  close  in  his  position,  march  back  hither. 
I  will  sit  down  at  once  and  do  it ! 

[She  sits  down  and  writes.] 


THE  PRINCE  OF  HOMBURG  473 

Reuss.  By  Heaven, 

Most  excellent,  my  lady !    An  event 
That  could  not  timelier  prove  for  our  petition ! 
Natalie  {as  she  writes). 

Use  it,  Count  Reuss,  as  well  as  you  know  how. 
[She  finishes  her  note,  seals  it  and  rises  to 
her  feet  again.'] 
Meanwhile  this  note,  you  understand,  remains 
In  your  portfolio ;  you  will  not  go 
To  Arnstein  with  it,  nor  convey  't  to  Kottwitz 
Until  I  give  more  definite  command. 

\,She  gives  him  the  letter.] 
A  Lackey  {entering). 

According  to  the  sovereign's  order,  madam, 
The  coach  is  ready  in  the  yard,  and  waiting. 
Natalie.         Go,  call  it  to  the  door.    I'll  come  at  once. 

[Pause,  during  which  she  steps  thoughtfully 

to  the  table  and  draws  on  her  gloves.] 
Count,  I  desire  to  interview  Prince  Homburg. 
Will  you  escort  me  thither?    In  my  coach 
There  is  a  place  I  put  at  your  disposal. 
Reuss.  Madam,  a  great  distinction,  I  assure  you  — 

\_He  offers  her  his  arm.] 
Natalie  {to  the  ladies-in-waiting). 

Follow,  my  friends ! — It  well  may  be  that  there 
I  shall  decide  about  the  note  erelong. 

[Exeunt  omnes.] 

Scene  III 

The  Princess  cell.     The  Prince  of  Homburg  hangs  his  hat  on  the  wall 
and  sinks,  carelessly  reclining,  on  a  mattress  spread  out  on  the  floor. 

The  Prince.  The  dervish  calls  all  life  a  pilgrimage, 

And  that,  a  brief  one.     True !  —  Of  two  short 

spans 
This  side  of  earth  to  two  short  spans  below. 
I  will  recline  upon  the  middle  path. 
The  man  who  bears  his  head  erect  today 


474  THE  GEKMAN  CLASSICS 

/    No  later  than  tomorrow  on  his  breast 
Bows  it,  all  tremulous.    Another  dawn, 
l        And,  lo,  it  lies  a  skull  beside  his  heel ! 
^^  '       Indeed,  there  is  a  sun,  they  say,  that  shines 

/  On  fields  beyond   e'en  brighter   than  these 

fields. 
->  I  do  believe  it;  only  pity  'tis 

The  eye,  that  shall  perceive  the  splendor,  rots. 

Scene  IV 

Enter  Princess  Nataue  on  the  arm  of  Count  Reuss,  and  followed  by 
ladies-in-waiting.  A  footman  with  a  torch  precedes  them.  The  Prince 
OP  HOMBURG. 

Footman.       Her  Highness  Princess  Natalie  of  Orange  1 

The  Prince  ( rising ) . 
Natalie ! 

Footman.  Here  she  comes  herself! 

Natalie  (with  a  bow  to  the  Count).  I  beg 

Leave  us  a  little  moment  to  ourselves. 

[Count  Reuss  and  the  footman  go.] 

The  Prince.  Beloved  lady ! 

Natalie.  Dear  good  cousin  mine ! 

The  Prince  {leading  her  up  stage). 

What   is   your   news?     Speak!     How   stand 
things  with  me! 

Natalie.         Well.    All  is  well,  just  as  I  prophesied. 

Pardoned  are  you,  and  free ;  here  is  a  letter 
Writ  by  his  hand  to  verify  my  words. 

The  Prince.  It  cannot  be !    No,  no !    It  is  a  dream ! 

Natalie.         Read !    Read  the  letter !    See  it  for  yourself ! 

The  Prince  (reading). 

**  My  Prince  of  Homburg,  when  I  made  you 

prisoner 
Because  of  your  too  premature  attack, 
I  thought  that  I  was  doing  what  was  right  — 
No  more ;  and  reckoned  on  your  acquiescence. 


THE  PRINCE  OF  HOMBURG  475 

If  you  believe  that  I  have  been  unjust, 

Tell  me,  I  beg  you  in  a  word  or  two, 

And   forthwith  I  will   send   you  back  your 
sword. ' ' 
[Natalie  turns  pale.    Pause.    The  Peince 
regards  her  questioningly.] 
Natalie  {feigning  sudden  joy). 

Well,   there   it    stands!     It   only   needs   two 
words, 

My  dear,  sweet  friend ! 

[She  presses  his  hand.] 
The  Prince.  Ah,  precious  lady  mine ! 

Natalie.         Oh,  blessed  hour  that  dawns  across  my  world ! 

Here,  take  it,  take  the  pen,  take  it  and  write. 
The  Prince.  And  here  the  signature  1 
Natalie.  The  F  —  his  mark! 

Oh,  Bork !    Be  glad  mth  me.    His  clemency 

Is  limitless,  I  knew  it,  as  the  sea ! 

Do  bring  a  chair,  for  he  must  write  at  once. 
The  Prince.  He  says,  if  I  believed  — 
Natalie  (interrupting).  Why,  yes,  of  course! 

Quick  now!    Sit  down.    I'll  tell  you  what  to 
say.         [She  sets  a  chair  in  place  for  him.] 
The  Prince.  I  wish  to  read  the  letter  once  again. 
Natalie  (tearing  the  letter  from  his  hand). 

Why  so  1    Did  you  not  see  the  pit  already 

Yawning  beneath  you  in  the  graveyard  yonder  ? 

The  time  is  urgent.    Come,  sit  down  and  write. 
The  Prince  (smiling). 

Truly,  you  act  as  though  it  had  the  power 

To  plump  down,  panther-fashion,  on  my  back. 
[He  sits  down  and  seizes  a  pen.] 
Natalie  (turning  away  with  a  sob). 

Write,  if  you  do  not  want  to  make  me  cross. 

[The  Prince  rings  for  a  lackey,  who  enters.] 


476  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

The  Prince.  Bring  pen  and  paper,  seal  and  sealing-wax. 

[The  lackey,  having  collected  these  and 
given  them  to  the  Prince,  goes  out.  The 
Prince  writes.  Pause,  during  ivhich  he 
tears  the  letter  he  has  begun  in  two  and 
throws  the  pieces  under  the  table.] 
A  silly  opening ! 

\_He  takes  another  sheet.] 
Natalie  {picking  up  the  letter).     What  did  you  sayf 

Good  heavens !    Why,  it 's  right,  it 's  excellent. 
The  Prince  {under  his  breath). 

Bah!     That's  a  blackguard's  wording,  not  a 

Prince 's. 
I'll  try  to  put  it  in  some  other  way. 

[Pause.   He  clutches  at  the  Elector's  letter 
which  the  Princess  holds  in  her  hand.] 
What  is  it,  anyway,  his  letter  says ! 
Natalie  {keeping  it  from  him). 

Nothing  at  all ! 
The  Prince.  Give  it  to  me! 

Natalie.  You  read  it ! 

The  Prince  {snatches  it  from  her). 

What  if  I  did?    I  only  want  to  see 
How  I'm  to  phrase  my  answer. 
Natalie  {to  herself).  God  of  earth! 

Now  all  is  done  Avith  him! 
The  Prince  {surprised).  Why,  look  at  this! 

As  I  'm  alive,  most  curious !    You  must 
Have  overlooked  the  passage. 
Natalie.  Why!     Which  one? 

The  Prince.  He  calls  on  me  to  judge  the  case  myself ! 
Natalie.         Well,  what  of  that? 
The  Prince.  Gallant,  i '  faith,  and  fine  I 

Exactly  what  a  noble  soul  would  say! 
Natalie.         His  magnanimity  is  limitless ! 

But  you,  too,  friend,  do  your  part  now,  and 
write. 


THE  PRINCE  OF  HOMBURG  477 

As  he  desires.    All  that  is  needed  now 
Is  but  the  pretext,  but  the  outer  form. 
As  soon  as  those  two  words  are  in  his  hands, 
Presto,  the  quarrel's  at  an  end. 
The  Prince  {putting  the  letter  away).  No,  dear! 

I  want  to  think  it  over  till  tomorrow. 
Natalie.         Incomprehensible !    Oh,  what  a  change ! 

But  why,  but  why? 
The  Peince  {rising  in  passionate  excitement). 

I  beg  you,  ask  me  not ! 
You  did  not  ponder  what  the  letter  said. 
That  he   did  me   a  wrong  —  and  that's   the 

crux  — 
I  cannot  tell  him  that.    And  if  you  force  me 
To  give  him  answer  in  my  present  mood. 
By  God,  it's  this  I'll  tell  him  — ''You  did 
right!" 
[He  sinks  doivn  beside  the  table  again  tvith 
folded  arms,  and  stares  at  the  letter.] 
Natalie  {pale). 

You  imbecile,  you !    What  a  thing  to  say ! 

[She  bends  over  him,  deeply  stirred.] 
The  Prince  {pressing  her  hand). 

Come,  just  a  second  now!    I  think  — 

[He  ponders.] 
Natalie.  What  is  it? 

The  Prince.  I'll  know  soon  now  what  I  shall  write  to  him. 
Natalie  {painfully). 

Homburg ! 
The  Prince  {taking  up  his  pen). 

Yes,  dear.    What  it  it? 
Natalie.  Sweetest  friend ! 

I  prize  the  impulse  that  upstirred  your  heart ; 

But  this  I  swear  to  you :  the  regiment 

Has  been  detailed,  whose  muskets  are  to  sound 

At  dawn  the  reconciling  burial  rite 

Above  the  grave  where  your  dead  body  lies. 


478  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

If  you  cannot  resist  the  law 's  decree, 
Nor,  noble  as  you  are,  do  what  he  asks 
Here  in  this  letter  to  repeal  it,  then 
I  do  assure  you  he  will  loftily 
Accept  the  situation,  and  fulfil 
The  sentence  on  the  morrow  ruthlessly. 

The  Prince  (writing). 
No  matter! 

Natalie.  What?    No  matter! 

The  Prince.  Let  him  do 

What  his  soul  bids.    I  must  do  what  I  must. 

Natalie  {approaching  him  frightened). 

Oh,  terrible!     You  are  not  writing  there? 

The  Prince  {concluding). 

''  Homburg!  "    And  dated,  ''  Fehrbellin,  the 

twelfth." 
So,  it 's  all  ready.    Frank ! 

[He  closes  and  seals  the  letter,] 

Natalie.  Dear  God  in  heaven ! 

The  Prince  (rising). 

Here,  take  this  to  the  Castle  to  my  liege ! 

[The  lackey  goes  out.] 
I  will  not  face  man  who  faces  me 
So  nobly,  with  a  knave 's  ignoble  front ! 
Guilt,  heavy  guilt,  upon  my  conscience  weighs, 
I  fully  do  confess.    Can  he  but  grant 
Forgiveness,  when  I  contest  for  it, 
I  do  not  care  a  straw  for  any  pardon. 

Natalie  (kissing  him). 

This  kiss,  for  me !    And  though  twelve  bullets 

made 
You  dust  this  instant,  I  could  not  resist 
Caroling,  sobbing,  cr\dng :  Thus  you  please  me ! 
However,  since  you  follow  your  heart's  lead, 
I  may  be  pardoned  if  I  follow  mine. 
Count  Reuss ! 

[The  footman  opens  the  door.    The  Count 
enters.] 


#r^ 


THE  PRINCE  OF  HOMBURG  479 

Reuss.  Here ! 

Natalie.  Go,  and  bear  the  note  I  gave 

Post-haste     to     Arnstein     and     to     Colonel 

Kottwitz ! 
The  regiment  shall  march,  our  liege  directs. 
Ere  midnight  I  shall  look  to  see  it  here ! 

[Exeunt  omnes.] 


ACTV 

Scene:    A  hall  in  the  Castle. 
Scene  I 

The  Elector,  scantily  clad,  enters  from  the  adjoining  chamber,  followed 
by  Count  Truchsz,  Count  Hohenzollern,  and  Captain  von  der 
GrOLZ.     Pages  with  lights. 

Elector.        Kottwitz  ?   And  with  the  Princess 's  dragoons  ? 

Here  in  the  town? 
Tbuchsz  {opening  the  window).    Indeed,  my  sovereign! 

Drawn  up  before  the  Castle,  here  he  is! 
Elector.        Well?    Will  you  read  the  riddle,  gentlemen? 

Who  called  him  hither! 
Hohenzollern.  I  know  not,  my  liege. 

Elector.        The  place  I  set  him  at  is  known  as  Arnstein ! 

Make  haste,  some  one,  and  go  and  bring  him  in. 
GoLz.  He  will  appear  forthwith,  my  sovereign. 

Elector.        Where  is  he? 
GoLZ.  At  the  City  Hall,  I  hear, 

Where  the  entire  generality. 

That  bears  obedience  to  your  house,  is  met. 
Elector.        But  why?    What  is  the  object? 
Hohenzollern.  I  know  not. 

Truchsz.       My  prince  and  lord,  will  you  vouchsafe  that  we 

Likewise  betake  ourselves  a  moment  thither? 


480 


THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 


Elector.        Whither?    The  City  Hall? 

HoHENzoLLERN.  The  lords'  assemblage. 

We  gave  our  word  of  honor  to  appear. 
Elector  {after  a  short  pause). 

You  are  dismissed ! 
GoLZ.  Come,  follow,  gentlemen ! 

{The  officers  go  out.] 


Scene  II 

The  Elector.    Later,  two  footmen. 

Elector.        Most  curious!    Were  I  the  Dey  of  Tunis 
I'd  sound  alarm  at  such  a  dubious  move, 
Lay  on  my  desk  despair's  thin  silken  cord, 
And  at  my  palisaded  castle-gate 
Set  up  my  heavy  guns  and  howitzers. 
But  since  it's  just  Hans  Kottwitz  from  the 

Priegnitz 
Who  marches  on  me  of  his  own  sweet  will 
I'll  treat  the  matter  in  the  Mark's  own  way; 
Of  the  three  curls  that  gleam  so  silvery 
On  his  old  skull,  I  '11  take  firm  hold  of  one 
And  lead  him  calmly  with  his  squadrons  twelve 
To  Arnstein,  his  headquarters,  back  again. 
Why  wake  the  city  from  its  slumber  thus? 
[He  goes  to  the  window  a  moment,  then  re- 
turns to  the  table  and  rings  a  hell.    Two 
lackeys  enter.] 
Do  run  below  and  ask,  as  for  yourself, 
What 's  doing  in  the  City  Hall. 
1st  Lackey.  At  once! 

[He  goes  out.] 
Elector  {to  the  other). 

But  you  go  now  and  fetch  me  my  apparel. 
[The  lackey  goes  and  brings  it.    The  Elec- 
tor attires  himself  and  dons  his  princely 
insignia.] 


THE  PRINCE  OF  HOMBURG 


481 


Scene  III 
Field-Marshal  Dobfling  enters.    The  others  as  before. 

DoRFLiNG.       Rebellion,  my  Elector! 

Elector  {still  occupied  with  his  clothes).     Calm  yourself! 
You  know  that  I  detest  to  have  my  room 
Without  a  warning  word,  invaded  thus. 
What  do  you  want? 

Marshal.  Forgive  me!    An  affair 

Of  special  consequence  has  brought  me  hither. 
Unordered,  Colonel  Kottwitz  moved  his  force 
Into  the  city;  hundred  officers 
Are  gathered  round  him  in  the  armor-hall. 
From  hand  to  hand  a  paper  passes  round 
That  purposes  encroachment  on  your  rights. 

Elector.        I  am  informed  of  it.    What  can  it  be 

Except  a  ferment  friendly  to  the  Prince 

On  whom  the  law  has  laid  the  sentence,  death  ? 

Marshal.        'Tis  so,  by  God  on  high !    You  struck  it  right ! 

Elector.        Well,  then,  and  good.     My  heart  is  in  their 
midst. 

Marshal.       The  rumor  goes  the  maniacs  intend 

This  very  night  to  hand  you  their  petition 
Here  in  the  Castle;  and  should  you  persist 
In  carrying  out,  irreconcilably. 
The  sentence  —  scarce  I  dare  to  bring  you 

this!  — 
To  liberate  him  from  his  bonds  by  force ! 

Elector  (sombrely) . 

Come  now,  who  told  you  that? 

Marshal.  Who  told  me  that? 

The  lady  Retzow,  cousin  of  my  wife. 
Whom  you  may  trust.    She  spent  this  evening 
In  Bailiff  Retzow's,  in  her  uncle's  house, 
And  heard  some  officers  who  came  from  camp 
Brazenly  utter  this  audacious  plan. 

Vol.  IV  — 31 


482 


THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 


Elector.        A  man  must  tell  me  that  ere  I'll  believe  it. 
I'll  set  this  boot  of  mine  before  his  house 
To  keep  him  safe  from  these  young  heroes' 
hands ! 

Marshal.       My  lord,  I  beg  you,  if  it  be  your  will. 

To  grant  the  Prince  his  pardon  after  all : 
Fulfil  it  ere  an  odious  deed  be  done. 
You  know  that  every  army  loves  its  hero. 
Let  not  this  spark  which  kindles  in  it  now 
Spread  out  and  wax  a  wild  consuming  fire. 
Nor  Kottwitz  nor  the  crowd  he  has  convened 
Are  yet  aware  my  faithful  word  has  warned 

you. 
Ere  he  appears,  send  back  the  Prince's  sword, 
Send  it,  as,  after  all,  he  has  deserved. 
One  piece  of  chivalry  the  more  you  give 
To  history,  and  one  misdeed  the  less. 

Elector.         Concerning  that  I'd  have  to  ask  the  Prince, 
Who  was  not  idly  made  a  prisoner. 
As  you  may  know,  nor  idly  may  be  freed. — 
I'U  see  the  gentlemen  when  they  arrive. 

Marshal  {to  himself). 

Curse  it!    His  armor's  proof  to  every  dart. 


Scene  IV 

Two  lackeys  enter,  one  with  a  letter  in  his  hand.     The  others  as  before. 


1st  Lackey.  Sir,    Colonels    Kottwitz,    Hennings,    Truchsz 
and  others 
Beg  audience ! 
Elector  {to  the  second  lackey,  as  he  takes  the  letter). 

This  from  the  Prince  of  Homburg? 
2d  Lackey.    Indeed,  your  Highness. 
Elector.  Who  delivered  it? 


THE  PRINCE  OF  HOMBURG  483 

2d  Lackey.    The  Swiss  on  guard  before  the  castle  gate, 
Who  had  it  from  the  Prince's  bodyguard. 
[The    Elector    stands    by    the    table,    and 
reads;  whereupon  he  turns  and  calls  to  a 
page.] 
Prittwitz!     Bring  me  the  warrant,  bring  it 

here. 
And  let  me  have  the  passport  for  the  Swede's 
Ambassador,  Gustaf,  the  Count  of  Horn. 

[Exit  the  page.] 
[To  the  first  lackey.] 
Now  Kottwitz  and  his  retinue  may  come. 


Scene  V 

Colonel  Kottwitz  and  Colonel  Hennings,  Count  Tbuchsz,  Counts 
HoHENZOLLERN  and  Spakren,  Count  Reuss,  Captain  von  deb  Golz, 
Stranz  and  other  officers  enter.     The  others  as  before. 

Kottwitz  {bearing  the  petition). 

Permit  me,  my  exalted  sovereign, 
Here  in  the  name  of  all  your  soldiery 
Most  humbly  to  submit  this  document. 

Elector.         Kottwitz,  before  I  take  it,  tell  me  now 
Who  was  it  called  you  to  this  city  here  ? 

Kottwitz   {regarding  him). 

With  the  dragoons? 

Elector.  Ay,  with  your  regiment ! 

I  nominated  Amstein  as  your  station. 

Kottwitz.      Sir!    It  was  your  behest  that  brought  me 
hither. 

Elector.        Eh?    Let  me  see  the  order ! 

Kottwitz.  Here,  my  liege. 

Elector  {reading). 

Signed : ' '  Natalie. ' '   And  dated : ' '  Fehrbellin, 
By  order  of  my  liege,  my  uncle  Frederick. ' ' 


484 


THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 


KoTTWiTz.     By  God,  my  prince  and  lord,  I  will  not  hope 

The  order's  news  to  you? 
Elector.  No  —  understand  — 

Who  was  it  who  conveyed  the  order  thither? 
KoTTwiTZ.      Count  Reuss! 
Elector  {after  a  momentary  pause). 

What's  more,  your 're  welcome,  very 
welcome ! 

You  have  been  chosen  with  your  squadrons 
twelve 

To  pay  Prince  Homburg,  sentenced  by  the  law, 

The  final  honors  of  the  morrow. 
KoTTwiTz  {taken  aback).  What, 

My  sovereign? 
Elector  {handing  hack  the  order). 

The  regiment  stands  yet. 

Benighted  and  befogged,  outside  the  Castle? 
Kottwitz.      Pardon,  the  night — 

Elector.  Why  don't  they  go  to  quarters? 

Kottwitz.      My  sovereign,  they  have  gone.  As  you  directed 

They  have  found  quarters  in  the  city  here. 
Elector  {with  a  turn  toward  the  window). 

What?     But  a  moment  since  —  Well,  by  the 
gods! 

You've  found  them  stables  speedily  enough. 

So  much  the  better !  Welcome,  then,  once  more ! 

Come,  say,  what  brings  you  here?    What  is 
your  news? 
Kottwitz.      Sir,  this  petition  from  your  loyal  men. 
Elector.        Come. 
Kottwitz.  But  the  words  your  lips  have  spoken  strike 

All  my  anticipations  down  to  earth. 
Elector.        Well,  then,  a  word  can  lift  them  up  again ! 

[He  readsJ] 

**  Petition,  begging  royal  clemency 

For  our  commandant,  vitally  accused, 


THE  PRINCE  OF  HOMBURG 


485 


The  General,  Prince  Frederick  Hessen-Hom- 
burg."  [To  the  officers.] 

A  noble  name,  my  lords !    And  not  unworthy 
Your  coming  in  such  numbers  to  its  aid. 

[He  looks  into  the  document  again.] 
By  whom  is  the  petition? 

KoTTWiTZ.  By  myself. 

Elector.        The  Prince  has  been  apprized  of  what  it  holds  ? 

KoTTWiTZ.      Not  in  the  very  faintest.    In  our  midst 

The  matter  was  conceived  and  given  birth. 

Elector.        Grant  me  a  moment's  patience,  if  you  please. 
[He  steps  to  the  table  and  glances  over  the 
paper.   Long  pause.] 
Hm!    Curious!    You  ancient  war-horse,  you. 
You  plead  the  Prince's  cause?    You  justify 
His  charging  Wrangel  ere  I  gave  command? 

KoTTwiTZ.      My  sovereign,  yes.    That's  what  old  Kottwitz 
does. 

Elector.         You  did  not  hold  that  notion  on  the  field ! 

Kottwitz.      I'd  weighed  the  thing  but  ill,  my  sovereign. 
I  should  have  calmly  yielded  to  the  Prince 
Who  is  most  wonderfully  versed  in  war. 
The  Swedes '  left  wing  was  wavering ;  on  their 

right 
Came  reinforcements ;  had  he  been  content 
To  bide  your  order,  they'd  have  made  a  stand 
With  new  intrenchments  in  the  gullies  there. 
And  never  had  you  gained  your  victory. 

Electob.        That's  what  it  pleases  you  to  presuppose! 
I  sent  out  Colonel  Hennings,  as  you  know, 
To  pounce  upon  and  seize  the  knot  of  bridges 
Held  by  the  Swedes  to  cover  WrangePs  rear. 
If  you  'd  not  disobeyed  my  order,  look, 
Hennings    had    carried    out    the    stroke    as 

planned  — 
In  two  hours '  time  had  set  afire  the  bridges, 
Planted  his  forces  firmly  on  the  Rhyn, 


486 


THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 


And  Wrangel  had  been  crushed  with  stump 

and  stem 
In  ditches  and  morasses,  utterly. 
KoTTwiTZ.      It  is  the  tyro 's  business,  not  yours, 

To  hunger  after  fate 's  supremest  crown. 
Until  this  hour  you  took  what  gift  she  gave. 
The  dragon  that  made  desolate  the  Mark 
Beneath  your  very  nose  has  been  repelled 
With  gory  head !    What  could  one  day  bring 
*  more? 

What  matters  it  if,  for  a  fortnight  yet, 
Spent  in   the   sand,   he   lies   and   salves   his 

wounds  ? 
We've  learnt  the  art  of  conquering  him,  and 

now 
Are  full  of  zeal  to  make  the  most  of  it. 
Give  us  a  chance  at  Wrangel,  like  strong  men. 
Breast  against  breast  once  more;  we'll  make 

an  end 
And,  down  into  the  Baltic,  down  he  goes ! 
They  did  not  build  Rome  in  a  single  day. 
Elector.        What  right  have  you,  you  fool,  to  hope  for 

that, 
When  every  mother's  son  is  privileged 
To  jerk  the  battle-chariot's  reins  I  hold? 
Think  you  that  fortune  will  eternally 
Award  a  cro\vn  to  disobedience? 
I  do  not  like  a  bastard  victory, 
The  gutter-waif  of  chance ;  the  law,  look  you, 
My  crown's  progenitor,  I  will  uphold, 
For  she  shall  bear  a  race  of  victories. 
KoTTWiTz.      My  liege,  the  law,  the  highest  and  the  best. 

That  shall  be  honored  in  your  leaders '  hearts — 
Look,  that  is  not  the  letter  of  your  will ! 
It  is  the  fatherland,  it  is  the  crown. 
It  is  yourself,  upon  whose  head  it  sits. 
I  beg  you  now,  what  matters  it  to  you 


THE  PRINCE  OF  HOMBURG  487 

What  rule  the  foe  fights  by,  as  long  as  he 
With  all  his  pennons  bites  the  dust  once  more! 
The  law  that  drubs  him  is  the  highest  law ! 
Would  you  transform  your  fervid  soldiery  ~^ 
Into  a  tool,  as  lifeless  as  the  blade  / 

That  in  your  golden  baldrick  hangs  inert?    S 
Oh,  empty  spirit,  stranger  to  the  stars. 
Who  first  gave  forth  such  doctrine !    Oh,  the 

base, 
The  purblind  statecraft,  which  because  of  one 
Instance  wherein  the  heart  rode  on  to  wrack, 
Forgets  ten  others,  in  the  whirl  of  life. 
Wherein  the  heart  alone  has  power  to  save  I 
Come,  in  the  battle  do  I  spill  in  dust 
My  blood  for  wages,  money,  say,  or  fame  ? 
Faith,  not  a  bit !    It's  all  too  good  for  that  I 
Why!    I've  my  satisfaction  and  my  joy, 
Free  and  apart,  in  quiet  solitude. 
Seeing  your  splendor  and  your  excellence, 
The  fame  and  crescence  of  your  mighty  name ! 
That  is  the  wage  for  which  I  sold  my  heart ! 
Grant  that,  because  of  this  unplanned  success, 
You  broke  the  staff  across  the  Prince's  head, 
And  I  somewhere  twixt  hill  and  dale  at  dawn 
Should,  shepherd-wise,  steal  on  a  victory 
Unplanned  as  this,  with  my  good  squadrons, 

eh?  — 
By  God,  I  were  a  very  knave,  did  I 
Not  merrily  repeat  the  Prince 's  act ! 
And  if  you  spake,  the  law  book  in  your  hand : 
*  *  Kottwitz,  you  've  forfeited  your  head  1  "   I'd 

say: 
I  knew  it.  Sir ;  there,  take  it,  there  it  is ; 
When  with  an  oath  I  bound  me,  hide  and  hair. 
Unto  your  crown,  I  left  not  out  my  head. 
And  I  should  give  you  nought  but  what  was 

yours ! 


488  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

Elector.        You  whimsical  old  gentleman,  with  you 

I   get  nowhere!     You   bribe   me   with   your 

tongue  — 
Me,  mth  your  craftily  framed  sophistries  — 
Me  —  and  you  know  I  hold  you  dear !    Where- 
fore 
I  call  an  advocate  to  bear  my  side 
And  end  our  controversy. 

[He  rings  a  hell.   A  footman  enters.] 
Go!     I  wish 
The  Prince  of  Homburg  hither  brought  from 
prison.  [Exit  footman.'] 

He  will  instruct  you,  be  assured  of  that, 
What  discipline  and  what  obedience  be! 
He  sent  me  words,  at  least,  of  other  pitch 
Than  this  astute  idea  of  libertj'- 
You  have  rehearsed  here  like  a  boy  to  me. 

[He  stands  by  the  table  again  reading.] 
KoTTWiTZ  (amazed). 

Fetch  whom?    Call  whom? 
Hennings.  Himself? 

Truchsz.  Impossible ! 

[The  officers  group  themselves,  disquieted, 
and  speak  ivith  one  another.] 
Elector.        Who  has  brought  forth  this  other  document? 
HoHEXzoLL.  I,  my  liege  lord ! 
Elector  {reading). 

' '  Proof  that  Elector  Frederick 
The  Prince's  act  himself — " — Well,  now,  by 

heaven, 
I  call  that  nerve ! 

What !    You  dare  say  the  cause  of  the  misdeed 
The  Prince  committed  in  the  fight,  am  I! 
HoHENzoLL.  Yourself,  my  liege ;  I  say  it,  Hohenzollern. 
Elector.        Now  then,  by  God,  that  beats  the  fairy-tales ! 
One  man  asserts  that  he  is  innocent. 
The  other  that  the  guilty  man  am  I!  — 
How  will  you  demonstrate  that  thesis  now! 


THE  PRINCE  OF  HOMBURG  489 

HoHENzoLL.  My  lord,  you  will  recall  to  mind  that  night 

We  found  the  Prince  in  slumber  deeply  sunk 
Down  in  the  garden  'neath  the  plantain  trees. 
He  dreamed,  it  seemed,  of  victories  on  the 

morrow, 
And  in  his  hand  he  held  a  laurel-twig, 
As  if  to  test  his  heart's  sincerity. 
You  took  the  wreath  away,  and  smilingly 
Twined  round  the  leaves  the  necklace  that  you 

wore. 
And  to  the  lady,  to  your  noble  niece. 
Both  wreath  and  necklace,  intertwining,  gave. 
At  such  a  wondrous  sight,  the  Prince,  aflush, 
Leaps  to  his  feet;  such  precious  things  held 

forth 
By  such  a  precious  hand  he  needs  must  clasp. 
But  you  withdraw  from  him  in  haste,  with- 
drawing 
The  Princess  as  you  pass;  the  door  receives 

you. 
Lady  and  chain  and  laurel  disappear, 
And,  solitary,  holding  in  his  hand 
A    glove    he    ravished    from    he    knows    not 

whom  — 
Lapped  in  the  midnight  he  remains  behind. 
Elector.         AVhat  glove  was  that? 

HoHENZOLLERN.  My  sovercign,  hear  me  through ! 

The  matter  was  a  jest ;  and  yet,  of  what 
Deep  consequence  to  him  I  learned  erelong. 
For  when  I  slip  the  garden's  postern  through, 
Coming  upon  him  as  it  were  by  chance, 
And  wake  him,  and  he  calls  his  senses  home. 
The  memory  flooded  him  with  keen  delight. 
A  sight  more  touching  scarce  the  mind  could 

paint. 
The  whole  occurrence,  to  the  least  detail, 
He  recapitulated,  like  a  dream ; 


490  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

So  vividly,  he  thought,  he  ne'er  had  dreamed, 
And  in  his  heart  the  firm  assurance  grew 
That  heaven  had  granted  him  a  sign ;  that  when 
Once  more  came  battle,  God  would  grant  him  all 
His  inward  eye  had  seen,  the  laurel-wreath. 
The  lady  fair,  and  honor's  linked  badge. 

Elector.        Hm !    Curious !    And  then  the  glove  ? 

HoHENzoLLERN.  Indeed ! 

This  fragment  of  his  dream,  made  manifest, 
At  once  dispels  and  makes  more  firm  his  faith. 
At  first,  with  large,  round  eye  he  looks  at  it: 
The  color's  white,  in  mode  and  shape  it  seems 
A  lady's  glove,  but,  as  he  spoke  with  none 
By  night  within  the  garden  whom,  by  chance. 
He  might  have  robbed  of  it  —  confused  thereto 
In  his  reflections  by  myself,  who  calls  him 
Up  to  the  council  in  the  palace,  he 
Forgets  the  thing  he  cannot  comprehend, 
And  off-hand  in  his  collar  thrusts  the  glove. 

Elector.         Thereupon? 

HoHENzoLLERN.  Thcrcupon  with  pen  and  tablet 

He  seeks  the  Castle,  with  devout  attention 
To  take  the  orders  from  the  Marshal 's  lips. 
The  Electress  and  the  Princess,  journey-bound, 
By  chance  are  likewise  in  the  hall;  but  who 
Shall  gauge  the  uttermost  bewilderment 
That  takes  him,  when  the  Princess  turns  to 

find 
The  very  glove  he  thrust  into  his  coUar ! 
The  Marshal  calls  again  and  yet  again 
*  The  Prince  of  Homburg !  '  *  Marshal,  to  com- 
mand! ' 
He  cries,  endeavoring  to  collect  his  thoughts; 
But  he,  ringed  round  by  marvels  —  why,  the 

thunders 
Of  heaven  might  have  fallen  in  our  midst  — 

[He  pauses.] 


THE  PRINCE  OF  HOMBURG 


491 


Electok.        It  was  the  Princess '  glove  ? 

HoHENzoLLEKN.  It  was,  indeed ! 

[The  Elector  sinks  into  a  hrown  study.] 
A  stone  is  he;  the  pencil's  in  his  hand, 
And  he  stands  there,  and  seems  a  living  man ; 
But  consciousness,  as  by  a  magic  wand, 
Is  quenched  within  him ;  not  until  the  morrow, 
As  down  the  lines  the  loud  artillery 
Already  roars,  does  he  return  to  life. 
Asking  me :    Say,  what  was  it  Dorfling  said 
Last  night  in  council,  that  applied  to  me  I 

Marshal.       Truly,  my  liege,  that  tale  I  can  indorse. 

The  Prince,  I  call  to  mind,  took  in  no  word 
Of  what  I  said;  distraught  I've  seen  him  oft. 
But  never  yet  in  such  degree  removed 
From  blood  and  bone,  never,  as  on  that  night. 

Elector.        Now  then,  if  I  make  out  your  reasoning. 

You  pile  your  climax  on  my  shoulders  thus : 
Had  I  not  dangerously  made  a  jest 
Of  this  young  dreamer's  state,  he  had  re- 
mained 
Guiltless,  in  council  had  not  roamed  the  clouds, 
Nor  disobedient  proved  "upon  the  field. 
Eh?    Eh?    Is  that  the  logic? 

Hohenzollern.  My  liege  lord, 

I  trust  the  filling  of  the  gaps  to  you. 

Elector.        Fool  that  you  are,  you  addlepate !    Had  you 
Not  called  me  to  the  garden,  I  had  not. 
Following  a  whim  of  curiosity. 
Made  harmless  fun  of  this  somnambulist. 
Wherefore,  and  quite  with  equal  right,  I  hold 
The  cause  of  his  delinquency  were  you!  — 
The  delphic  wisdom  of  my  officers ! 

HoHENzoLL.  Enough,  my  sovereign!    I  am  assured. 

My  words  fell  weightily  upon  your  heart. 


492 


THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 


Scene  VI 
An  officer  enters.     The  others  as  before. 

Officer.         My  lord,  the  Prince  will  instantly  appear. 
Elector.         Good,  then !    Let  him  come  in. 
Officer.  Two  minutes,  sir  1 

He  but  delayed  a  moment  on  the  way 
To  beg  a  porter  ope  the  graveyard  gate. 
Elector.         The  graveyard? 
Officer.  Ay,  my  sovereign. 

Elector.  But  why? 

Officer.         To  tell  the  truth,  my  lord,  I  do  not  know. 
It  seemed  he  wished  to  see  the  burial-vault 
That  your  behest  uncovered  for  him  there. 
[The    commanders  group   themselves   and 
talk  together.] 
Elector.        No  matter !    When  he  comes,  let  him  come  in ! 
[He  steps  to  the  table  again  and  glances  at 
the  papers.] 
Truchsz.       The  watch  is  bringing  in  Prince  Homburg  now. 


Scene  VII 

Enter  the  Prince  of  Homburg.     An  officer  and  the  watch. 

as  before. 


The  others 


Elector.        Young  Prince  of  mine,  I  call  you  to  my  aid ! 

Here 's  Colonel  Kottwitz  brings  this  document 
In  your  behalf,  look,  in  long  column  signed 
By  hundred  honorable  gentlemen. 
The  army  asks  your  liberty,  it  runs. 
And  will  not  tolerate  the  court's  decree. 
Come,  read  it  and  inform  yourself,  I  beg. 

[He  hands  him  the  paper.] 
The  Prince   {casts  a  glance  at  the  document,  turns  and 
looks  about  the  circle  of  officers). 
Kottwitz,  old  friend,  come,  let  me  clasp  your 
hand! 


THE  PRINCE  OF  HOMBURG 


493 


You  give  me  more  than  on  the  day  of  battle 
I  merited  of  you.    But  now,  post-haste, 
Go,  back  again  to  Amstein  whence  you  came, 
Nor  budge  at  all.    I  have  considered  it; 
The  death  decreed  to  me  I  will  accept ! 

[He  hands  over  the  paper  to  him.] 

KoTTWiTZ  (distressed). 

No,  nevermore,  my  Prince!    What  are  you 
saying? 

HoHENzoLL.  He  wants  to  die  — 

Truchsz.  He  shall  not,  must  not  die  I 

Various  Officers  {pressing  forward). 

My  lord  Elector !  Oh,  my  sovereign !  Hear  us ! 

The  Prince.  Hush !    It  is  my  inflexible  desire ! 
Before  the  eyes  of  all  the  soldiery 
I  wronged  the  holy  code  of  war ;  and  now 
By  my  free  death  I  wish  to  glorify  it. 
My  brothers,  what's  the  one  poor  victory 
I  yet  may  snatch  from  Wrangel  worth  to  yon 
Against  the  triumph  o  *er  the  balef uUest^ 
Of  foes  within,  that  I  achieve  at  dawn-/- 
The  insolent  and  disobedient  heart.         \ 
Now  shall  the  alien,  seeking  to  bow  down 
Our  shoulders   'neath  his  yoke,  be  crushed; 
and,  free,  / 

The  man  of  Brandenburg  shall  take  his  stana 
Upon  the  mother  soil,  for  it  is  his  — 
The  splendor  of  her  meads  alone  for  him ! 

KoTTWiTZ  (moved). 

My  son!    My  dearest  friend!    What  shall  I 
name  you? 

Truchsz.       God  of  the  world ! 

KoTTwiTz.  Oh,  let  me  kiss  your  hand  I 

[They  press  round  him.] 

The  Prince  (turning  toward  the  Elector). 

But  you,  my  liege,  who  bore  in  other  days 
A  tenderer  name  I  may  no  longer  speak, 


// 


494 


THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 


Before  your  feet,  stirred  to  my  soul,  I  kneel. 
Forgive,  that  with  a  zeal  too  swift  of  foot 
I  served  your  cause  on  that  decisive  day ; 
Death  now  shall  wash  me  clean  of  all  my  guilt. 
But  give  my  heart,  that  bows  to  your  decree, 
Serene  and  reconciled,  this  comfort  yet : 
To  know  your  breast  resigns  all  bitterness  — 
And,  in  the  hour  of  parting,  as  a  proof. 
One  favor  more,  compassionately  grant. 

Electoe.        Young  hero,  speak!    What  is  it  you  desire? 
I  pledge  my  word  to  you,  my  knightly  honor, 
It  shall  be  granted  you,  whate'er  it  be! 

The  Prince.  Not  with  your  niece 's  hand,  my  sovereign, 
Purchase  the  peace  of  Gustaf  Karl !    Expel, 
Out  of  the  camp,  expel  the  bargainer 
Who  made  this  ignominious  overture. 
Write  your  response  to  him  in  cannon-shots! 

Elector  {kissing  his  brow). 

As  you  desire  then.    With  this  kiss,  my  son, 
That  last  appeal  I  grant.    Indeed,  wherein 
Now  have  we  need  of  such  a  sacrifice 
That  war's  ill-fortune  only  could  compel? 
Why,  in  each  word  that  you  have  spoken,  buds 
A  victory  that  strikes  the  foeman  low ! 
I'll  write  to  him,  the  plighted  bride  is  she 
Of  Homburg,  dead  because  of  Fehrbellin ; 
With  his  pale  ghost,  before  our  flags  a-charge, 
Let  him  do  battle  for  her,  on  the  field ! 

{He  kisses  him  again  and  draws  him  to  his 
feet.] 

The  Prince.  Behold,  now  have  you  given  me  life  indeed ! 
Now  every  blessing  on  you  I  implore 
That  from  their  cloudy  thrones  the  seraphim 
Pour  forth  exultant  over  hero-heads. 
Go,  and  make  war,  and  conquer,  oh,  my  liege. 
The  world  that  fronts  you  —  for  you  merit  it ! 

Elector.        Guards !    Lead  the  prisoner  back  to  his  cell ! 


THE  PRINCE  OF  HOMBURG  495 

Scene  VIII 

Natalie  and  the  Electress  appear  in  the  doorway,  followed  by  ladies-in- 
waiting.     The  others  as  before. 

Natalie.         Mother!  Decorum!   Can  you  speak  that  word? 
In  such  an  hour  there's  none  but  just  to  love 

him  — 
My  dear,  unhappy  love ! 
The  Prince  (turning).  Now  I  shall  go! 

Truchsz  (holding  him). 

No,  nevermore,  my  Prince ! 

[Several  officers  step  in  his  way.] 
The  Prince.  Take  me  away ! 

HoHENzoLL.  Liege,  can  your  heart  — 
The  Prince  (tearing  himself  free). 

You  tyrants,  would  you  drag  me 
In  fetters  to  my  execution-place! 
Go!     I  have  closed  my  reckoning  with  this 
world.  [He  goes  out  under  guard.] 

Nataue  (on  the  Electress'  breast). 

Open,  0  earth,  receive  me  in  your  deeps. 
Why  should  I  look  upon  the  sunlight  more  ? 

Scene  IX 
The  persons,  as  in  the  preceding  scene,  with  the  exception  of  the  Prince 

OP  HOMBUEG. 

Marshal.       God  of  earth!    Did  it  have  to  come  to  that? 

[The  Elector  speaks  in  a  low  voice  to  an 
officer.] 
KoTTWiTZ  (frigidly). 

My  sovereign,  after  all  that  has  occurred 
Are  we  dismissed? 
Eleotob.  Not  for  the  present,  no ! 

I'll  give  you  notice  when  you  are  dismissed ! 
[He  regards  him  a  moment  straightly  and 
steadily;  then  takes  the  papers  which  the 
page  has  brought  him  from  the  table  and 
turns  to  the  Field-Marshal.] 


496  THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

This  passport,  take  it,  for  Count  Horn  the 

Swede. 
Tell  him  it  is  my  cousin's  wish,  the  Prince's, 
Which  I  have  pledged  myself  to  carry  out. 
The  war  begins  again  in  three  days '  time ! 
[Pause.    He  casts  a  glance  at  the  death 
warrant.] 
Judge  for  yourselves,  my  lords.    The  Prince 

of  Homburg 
Through  disobedience  and  recklessness 
Of  two  of  my  best  victories  this  year 
Deprived  me,  and  indeed  impaired  the  third. 
Now  that  he's  had  his  schooling  these  last  days 
Come,  will  you  risk  it  with  him  for  a  fourth? 
KoTTWiTZ  and  Truchsz  (helter-skelter). 

What,  my  adored  —  my  worshipped  —  What, 
my  liege  f  — 
Elector.        Will  you?    Will  you? 

KoTTwiTz.  Now,  by  the  living  God, 

He'd   watch   you    standing   on   destruction's 

brink 
And  never  twitch  liis  sword  in  your  behalf, 
Or  rescue  you  unless  you  gave  command. 
Elector  (tearing  up  the  death  warrant). 

So,  to  the  garden !     Follow  me,  my  friends  I 

Scene  X 

The  Castle  with  the  terrace  leading  down  into  the  garden,  as  in  ACT  I. 
It  is  night,  as  then. —  The  Prince  of  Homburg,  with  bandaged  eyes, 
is  led  in  through  the  lower  garden-wicket,  by  CAPTAm  Stranz.  Officers 
with  the  guard.  In  the  distance  one  can  hear  the  drumming  of  the 
death-march. 

^        The  Prince.  All  art  thou  mine  now,  immortality! 

Thou  glistenest  through  the  veil  that  blinds 
■"^^  mine  eyes 

With  that  sun's  glow  that  is  a  thousand  suns. 
I J  f  J,  I  feel  bright  pinions  from  my  shoulders  start ; 


STATUE   OF   THE   GREAT  ELECTOR 
Sculptor,  Andreas  Schldter 


THE  PRINCE  OF  HOMBURG  497 

Through  mute,  ethereal  spaces  wings  my  soul ; 
And  as  the  ship,  borne  outward  by  the  wind, 
Sees  the  bright  harbor  sink  below  the  marge, 
Thus  all  my  being  fades  and  is  submerged. 
Now  I  distinguish  colors  yet  and  forms. 
And  now  —  all  life  is  fog  beneath  my  feet. 
[The   Pkince   seats   himself  on  the   bench 
tvhich  stands  about  the  oak  in  the  middle 
of  the  open  space.    The  Captain  draws 
away  from  him  and  looks  up  toward  the 
terrace.] 
How  sweet  the  flowers  fill  the  air  with  odor ! 
D'you  smell  them? 
Steanz  ( returning  to  him).    They  are  gillyflowers  and  pinks. 
The  Prince.  How  come  the  gillyflowers  here  ? 
Stranz.  I  know  not. 

It  must  have  been  some  girl  that  planted  them. 
Come,  will  you  have  a  bachelor 's  button  ? 
The  Prince.  Thanks! 

When  I  get  home  I'll  have  it  put  in  water. 

Scene  XI 

The  Elector  with  the  laurel-wreath,  about  which  the  golden  chain  is 
twined,  the  Electress,  Princess  Natalie,  Field-Marshal  Dorfling, 
Colonel  Kottwitz,  Hohenzollern,  Golz,  and  others.  Ladies-in-wait- 
ing, officers  and  boys  bearing  torches  appear  on  the  castle  terrace. 
Hohenzollern  steps  to  the  balustrade  and  with  a  handkerchief  signals 
to  Captain  Stranz,  whereupon  the  latter  leaves  the  Prince  of  Hom- 
BURG  and  speaks  a  few  words  with  the  guards  in  the  background. 

The  Prince.  What  is  the  brightness  breaking  round  me, 

say! 
Stranz  {returning  to  him). 

My  Prince,  will  you  be  good  enough  to  rise  I 
The  Prince.  What's  coming? 
Stranz.  Nothing  that  need  wake  your  fear. 

I  only  wish  to  free  your  eyes  again. 
The  Prince.  Has  my  ordeal's  final  hour  struck? 

Vol.  IV  — 32 


498  '     THE  GERMAN  CLASSICS 

Stbanz  {as  he  draivs  the  bandage  from  the  Prince's  eyes). 
Indeed  1  Be  blest,  for  well  you  merit  it  I 
[The  Elector  gives  the  wreath,  from  ivhich 
the  chain  is  hanging,  to  the  Princess, 
takes  her  hand  and  leads  her  down  from 
the  terrace.  Ladies  and  gentlemen  follow. 
Surrounded  by  torches,  the  Princess  ap- 
proaches the  Prince,  who  looks  up  in 
amazement;  sets  the  wreath  on  his  head, 
the  chain  about  his  neck  and  presses  his 
hand  to  her  breast.  The  Prince  tumbles 
in  a  faint.] 

Natalie.         Heaven!     The  joy  has  killed  him! 

Hohenzoilern  {raising  him).  Help,  bring  help! 


Elector. 

Let  him  be  wakened  by  the  cannons '  thunder ! 

[Artillery  fire.     A  march.     The  Castle  is 

illuminated.] 

KOTTWITZ. 

Hail,  hail,  the  Prince  of  Homburg ! 

Officers. 

Hail,  hail,  hail ! 

A^.j.. 

The  victor  of  the  field  of  Fehrbellin ! 

[Momentary  silence.] 

The  Prince, 

No!     Say!    Is  it  a  dream? 

KoTTWITZ. 

A  dream,  what  else? 

Several  Officers.     To  arms!  to  arms! 

Truchsz. 

To  war! 

DORFLINQ. 

To  victory! 

At.t.  In  dust  with  all  the  foes  of  Brandenburg  1 


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